


No Safety In Desire

by MellytheHun



Series: The Between of Terrified and Terrific [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bottom Draco, Bottom Harry, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Harry Breaks Up With Ginny, Harry Pines Pretty Hard Tho, Harry Potter & Ginny Weasley Friendship, Healing, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Mutual Pining, Not Epilogue Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Pining Draco Malfoy, Pining Harry Potter, Post-War, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Top Draco Malfoy, Top Harry, Trust Issues, switching POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2018-12-18 10:36:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 52,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11872554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun
Summary: The war has left Harry changed and he can't tell whether or not that's a good thing yet.Operating in the world when there was just one person to blame for the majority of suffering seems a lot easier in comparison to the ambiguous, tangled mess of shades of grey the on-coming peace presents.Also, Malfoy's definitely up to something.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title of the fic is inspired by the song lyrics in 'So Close,' by Andrew McMahon.
> 
> There will be appropriate trigger warnings before every chapter and anything that was missed/skipped over by those that couldn't read the material is at the bottom in the end notes. 
> 
> This fic in no way tries to demonize Ginny - the break up between she and Harry isn't smooth, though. Mostly because Harry has no tact and his communication skills are abominable and they're both struggling to adjust to post-war life. 
> 
> It's never explicitly stated, but Harry is suffering from complex post-traumatic stress and major depressive disorder. There won't be any miraculous recoveries for any characters (all of whom are suffering from one thing or another), but the symptoms will lessen over time. A lot of this story is about them healing and learning to live again in a new world.
> 
> There will be loads of drarry, but I am the slowest builder of slow builds, so be patient.
> 
> This fic is written for Erica and Lucy <3
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The Burrow is a whirr of life and noise, as it always is during the morning and day, and everything smells richly of late summer, trimmed grass, sweet food, calm breezes...

The animals outside are chirping, snorting, playing, or bumping into each other, and making their usual racket, the gnomes in the garden are pestering, the ghoul in the attic still bumps around at all hours. The living room and kitchen are alive with levitating objects, all moving on their own, chores completing themselves, and clocks ticking, laundry folding, needles knitting, and soft music is being played from an enchanted record player in the living area.

It’s peaceful, and that alone makes Harry uncomfortable.

Peacefulness, since May – and possibly even before that – wears on him like Dudley’s hand-me-down clothes.

Ill.

With Hermione, Ron, George, Percy, Ginny, and the Weasley parents all in attendance, Harry sits at the kitchen table, and aggressively ignores their concerned glances, concentrating on eating while not tasting anything, and pretending that that’s normal as well.

Everyone knows he’s not been sleeping well, and he can tell when they’re not looking him in the eye, but rather looking under his eyes at the lines, and dark smudges he knows are there. They think they’re being subtle, but they’re not.

Then again, Harry’s never known the Weasley family to be anything but brash honesty and eccentric charm, only ever just bordering on the absurd-to-aggravating. They’re all a bit transparent these days, if they hadn’t been before.

George has been smiling as much as he can – it’s really rather sad to look at, though. It’s a smile he makes for his parents’ sake, and it’s as though his magic’s broken or something, like he’s Conjuring something that’s close to what it ought to be, but not quite right. A light that only flickers from the tip of a broken wand, a teacup transfigured with no handle, or some other simple thing that’s only just-a-bit wrong. No one says anything about that either.

Aside from clearly being happy to be home, Percy’s been cordial when speaking, but otherwise keeps to himself. It seems as if every time he tries to engage George or Ron, something goes awry, and asinine arguments ensue rather quickly. Harry can’t tell if they’re unready, or unable, to forgive Percy yet, or if they feel he doesn’t belong back at The Burrow for having ever left it, or maybe it’s something else altogether.

Thank goodness for Ron, though – the only sane person there seems left in the world, in Harry's eyes.

Ron’s an absolute brute at worst, snarky, and spiteful, and ready to shout – those are his worst hours, though, and he’s sane, because he at least doesn’t pretend like everything is alright. Ron isn’t desperately clinging to some semblance of past normalcy, acting like things aren’t broken and not-quite-right. He accepts that everything’s shite, and just makes the best of it, and it helps Harry feel like he’s not losing his mind.

During his best hours, he’s been a better friend to Harry than ever before – he’s this ever-evolving thing it seems, ever since the sword of Gryffindor and the frozen lake. It’s like he’s figured out that life is barmy and awful, but lovely and magical too, he's had some epiphany, and he’ll be damned before he’s ever quiet about anything ever again.

Ron’s made for a good boyfriend to Hermione, too. He treats her kindly, but not like fine china – a good middle ground everyone else is still struggling to find. He’s a perfect gentleman too, which Harry is a bit ashamed to admit, even to himself, he hadn’t expected.

When Ron was with Lavender, it was like he’d forgotten his tongue used to do other things than interact with Lavender’s, but he keeps a respectable distance from Hermione, as though they’re all still the same friends they’ve always been, and nothing’s changed. When he does invite himself into her space, he does it gently and slowly, until permission is clearly (and always) given. He asks to touch Hermione too, before he ever does.

Like, he holds Hermione’s hands plenty, but he never takes her hand without asking if it’s alright to, and he sometimes just presents his arm as an offer for her to hang on if she’d like, and she’s always eager to take it. Ron’s worked out this formula to handling Hermione like Hagrid does with one of his bewildering magical creatures – it’s hard not to be envious of Ron, just a bit. Harry doesn’t see where Ron picked up all the sensitivity, all the initiative, and romance.

He’s bloody good at it too – Hermione’s in some constant state of maybe-swooning, and who could blame her? Sometimes, he just leans close to her, brushes aside her hair, and whispers things like, ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ but doesn’t say, ‘I’m sorry you’re not with your parents,’ and things like, ‘I’m proud of you,’ but doesn’t say things like ‘they’d be proud of you too.’

Ron knows every moment he has with Hermione is a moment she doesn’t have with her parents; someone else’s loss is his gain, and it feels like he’s trying his best to atone for that with everything he does. Everyone’s thinking it, feeling it in the air, and Hermione must fill the gaps in for herself, but it’s an appropriate, if a strange, acknowledgement that not _all_ is well.

Really, Harry would like for the Weasleys’ collective concern to turn _back_ to Hermione if they could, please and thanks – she’s currently got her nose stuck in a fresh copy of _The Daily Prophet_ , and everyone – it seems – has elected to ignore the failure of her parents’ rescue.

It wasn’t for a lack of trying.

She and Ron found her parents in Brisbane, but her reversal spells were ineffective. They spent three full weeks there, pulling every string they had to pull, calling up every favor they had to call, and consulting every notable wizard or witch they’d met in the last few years.

On the third week, it was a Charms Master that worked at the Ministry – a man by the name Dydimus Gifford – that broke the news to her; the spell had sat too long, he said, the memories were irretrievable, he said. He said what everyone had said; really a tragedy, so sorry, nothing to be done for it, we all tried our best, your efforts were so sincere, it’s no shortcoming on your part, our condolences, etcetera, etcetera.

To say she was devastated upon returning to The Burrow, with truly nowhere else to go, would be an understatement.

For a good week or so, she was the sole focus of all sidelong glances, pursed lips of worry, and bothered brows, but it appears now, that they’re all quite ready to go back to fussing over Harry.

So, he’s keeping his head down to his plate, and everything is quiet and (relatively) normal until Hermione slams the paper into the middle of the table, outraged.

“Can you believe this?!” she exclaims.

“Whurght?” Ron asks through two fried eggs, and what looks like bacon trying to escape the corner of his mouth.

It’s clear that the urge to roll her eyes at him is strong, but she resists. She glances between Harry, Ron, George, and Percy, and asks, “have none of you read the paper yet?”

“Haven’t had a chance quite yet,” Percy mumbles, walking on eggshells – not meaning to offend her with his implication that she’s been hogging it (and she has).

She scowls anyway, but it’s got nothing to do with Percy. She thrusts an open hand at the paper, and explains, “the Ministry’s not stopping at Lucius Malfoy! You’d think they’d be wiser than all this! It’s positively barbaric!”

“Wait,” Harry interrupts, “What happened to Lucius Malfoy?”

Ron and Hermione both glance at Harry, then to each other, and then back to Harry in this annoying way they’ve taken to doing. It makes Harry paranoid, honestly.

“He was given the Dementor’s Kiss, Harry,” Hermione tells him sorrowfully, “This was nearly two weeks ago…”

Opening his mouth, heart dropping like a stone into his stomach, Harry goes to ask for more details, but Ron interrupts him.

George is reaching across the table to grab at the paper for a look himself while Ron swallows his mouthful, and wide-eyed, responds, “well, you’re right, o’course, ‘Mione, but what would you propose they do?”

He glances warily to Harry, and then back to Hermione, “I mean… I’m sure there are a lotta families that wouldn’t be able to rest at night, knowing those Death Eaters are out there, walking about, ya know?”

Frowning deeply, Hermione replies, “it’d be more merciful to kill them, and _that’s_ obviously not the answer.”

“Shacklebot’s been pushing for the retirement of the Dementors, actually,” Percy supplies, “I’m not sure what he intends to replace that with, though. Death sentences could be reinstated. It’s not so far-fetched an idea, with the way things are right now.”

Hermione gapes in horror, Ron turns a bit green, and Harry is still thinking about what the Hell happened to Lucius Malfoy? What’s happened to his wife? What’s happened to _Malfoy_?

“Yeah,” George reaffirms, looking down at the paper in his hand, “Don’t know how else they’d do it. It’s clear that even with Dementors in place, security at Azkaban could be broken, and it was – multiple times over the last few years. It’s no longer a guarantee that anyone’s safe, so people will be pushing for higher security now. If Shacklebot removes the Dementors, I can see a lot of people probably wanting the death sentence back in its place.”

“ _Killing_ to prove that killing is _wrong_ is entirely counterintuitive, and it’s – it’s _primitive_!” Hermione argues, “They can’t! They won’t!”

Entirely unprompted, Ginny asks openly, and suddenly, “are they going to kill Draco Malfoy?”

Something cold and unsettling knots Harry’s stomach at that; not that he cares terribly for Draco Malfoy, but the thought that he’d saved Draco from a blazing fire only to have him executed – it leaves him with a pale feeling inside.

At the hopeful tone of Ginny’s voice, Harry’s veins go stony, and all he can see in his mind’s eye is Malfoy, staring down at him with his silver eyes – his silver, _knowing_ eyes. Eyes that recognized him beyond a shadow of a doubt, eyes that had met his time and again for seven years, eyes that knew Harry’s as intimately and immediately as Harry’s knew Malfoy’s.

Eyes that steeled themselves before he proclaimed to a room full of psychotic murderers that they shouldn’t harm Harry, and that his testimony of uncertainty should be enough to keep them from hurting Harry, or his friends.

Not for the first time since the end of the war, Harry thinks to himself, _she doesn’t understand._

Harry doesn’t _like_ Malfoy, but he doesn’t _hate_ Malfoy either. He doesn’t feel bad for Malfoy, but he doesn’t feel so sure anymore that Malfoy had anything as easy as Harry once thought. Silver spoon aside – Harry had his own once he entered the wizarding world. Wrong and right aren’t so singularly distinguishable. The world doesn’t operate in black and white, and Ginny didn’t see that – she never saw the grey. She never saw the grey of Malfoy’s eyes. The place between. The not-quite-right personified.

She doesn’t understand. She can’t.

Hermione shrugs in response to Ginny’s question, clearly too preoccupied with the issue at hand to see Harry’s inner-crisis unfolding across the table.

“I doubt it,” Hermione eventually answers, “Malfoy wasn’t eighteen when he was a Death Eater, I don’t even know that he’d be tried as an adult – he might face time in Azkaban, but I doubt they’d give him the Kiss. Not to mention the Ministry’s seeing to it that anyone he’s ever relied on is dead or soulless, so I imagine that’ll be punishment enough. They’re still trying to collect the Malfoy riches, though.”

It occurs to Harry then that Hermione had started this entire conversation by saying ‘they’re not stopping at Lucius Malfoy,’ – there are implications in that. Dark implications. He thinks of Narcissa – he even thinks of Andromeda, and Severus, and that’s all he can think of, in regard to who Malfoy has ever ‘relied on.’ It’s a short list. It’s sad. It’s all making Harry immensely disconcerted.

George nods in agreement, “yeah, I heard about that. Sounds like if they give his mum the Kiss, tons’uh money belongs to the ‘Malfoy Heir,’ which is Draco. Lucius must’ve been tortured for the location, but he never gave it, and they can’t legally torture or interrogate Malfoy for the answers without some sort of warrant, so the bankers must be going mad.”

“I’m sure they only want the riches for reparations to the deserving families effected by the Malfoys’ actions, and inactions,” Percy says evenly, gesticulating in this really posh way that reminds Harry more of Malfoy, “It’d be selfish to keep it to himself, knowing what he’s done – what they all did.”

Molly smiles at George as she finally sits down at the table, herself. She looks between George, and Percy, and says, “ _I_ think the Malfoy’s fortune should be passed down to _us_! We need it after all. They had _one_ child! Imagine! _One_!”

Arthur smiles, shaking his head fondly, and chewing with a grateful blush on his face – Harry notices it’s the same blush that colors Ron’s face when Hermione’s been particularly kind to him, or something – Ron does that when Hermione passes him a book, or a quill, or utensil, before he even asks for it, or when she folds his sweaters for him, or un-ruffles his hair.

That Beyond-Besotted-Blush might be a Weasley-specific trait, Harry thinks, and he’d smile at it, if it didn’t feel like he was wandering in the dark, and stubbing his toe on the corner of every turn in the conversation.

“Malfoy riches?” Harry inquires, his eyes roving around the table for someone to explain.

Ginny meets his eyes first, and tells him, “the Malfoy’s are bloody rich, and have been forever – it’s old, old money, and we all know that, but no one entirely knows how the Malfoy’s got their fortune, or where it’s been kept all this time, because, wherever it is, it’s _not_ at Gringott’s. All that’s escaped in rumor is that they’ve a private, secret spot to save it in. It’s rumored that it’s more than enough money to re-build Hogwarts a hundred times over. But Malfoy’s parents must have been saving that money for Draco, in the likely situation that they’d die during, or after the war.”

The way she says that – it’s cold, and clinical, and Harry’s heart aches a bit.

After all, his parents did the same thing.

They left him a massive fortune, left him security, and safety, and comfort – means to get whatever he might need or want in life, and it was out of the love of their hearts. It wasn’t about showing up anyone, or being greedy and hiding away a treasure – it was all for Harry, all for love, and he can’t help but feel empathetic.

That money belongs to Malfoy – whether he’s a git or not is beside the point – his parents loved him, and knew the world was a big, scary place, and they did what Harry’s parents did – they provided what security they could, in absentia.

There’s respect there, for that. Harry’s proud of his parents – who they were, all that they did, and if the Malfoy’s took a page out of the Potters’ book, then Harry would see to it that their wishes saw fruition.

Whatever Shacklebot might be doing or wanting, Harry doesn’t want those riches taken from Malfoy. It doesn’t feel right.

“Someone’s got to stand up to the Ministry – someone’s got to talk some sense into Shacklebot, and see to it that no more orphans are made.”

Thinking sadly, and fondly, of Teddy, Harry hums in agreement.

“ _Someone_ needs to establish some respectable baseline – some basic humane treatment for those that need to be punished, or can’t be reintroduced to society.”

Was Lucius unable to reenter society? Harry disagrees, but he hums again in agreement, anyway, staring into the middle distance, and wondering what state the remaining Malfoy’s must be in.

It takes him a beat or two to acknowledge the leaden silence that’s enveloped everything.

He blinks, looking up to find Hermione’s eyes wide and pleading.

“Harry…”

He quirks a worried brow at her, “…what?”

“ _Harry_ ,” she repeats, reaching her hand across the table to touch his arm, “ _You’re_ someone –"

“No. You know I can’t stop the Ministry, Hermione,” Harry cuts in, taking his hand back, “I did what I could at what trials they let me stand in for, but my job is over, and everyone’s made that pretty clear. They want justice, and I agree with you, but I can’t just waltz into the Ministry, and demand a revamp of the entire justice system.”

 _And I’m tired_ , Harry thinks to himself, unable to articulate _what_ kind of tired he is – how the tire is in his bones, between his organs, how his _tire_ is the thing keeping him up at night. He’s _tired_. And not the kind that can be solved with a good sleep he couldn’t achieve in his wildest daydreams, anyway.

“Harry!” she whines, “You’ve got to! You’ve got to _try_! They’re going to come for Narcissa! You know they will! Malfoy deserves a lot, Harry, but not this – not what they’re doing!”

He sighs so heavily, it’s like a wind blowing out from his chest.

Since the end of the war, Harry had been in and out of their courtrooms, nodding off in hallways between tribunals, blurring the line between sleeping in what he’d worn all day and wearing all day what he’d slept in – he spent months giving testimonies, and convincing juries to trust his leniency on countless prisoners. It’s all a blur now, the madness that it was.

And none of that included the funerals. The never ending parade of black, the journalists begging him for opinions, and last thoughts, single comments, closing statements – every awkward public speech he had to give, all the crying he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from doing in public, all the eulogies he had to write, read over, re-write, throw into fires, write again, and then memorize, and recite over the bodies of his friends, of his family, and he’s _tired_.

He’s so bloody tired.

And Hermione wants him to storm up into the Ministry, and tell Shacklebot that he’s not doing his job right?

No. Harry is exhausted beyond exhaustion. He is worn, and tattered, and frayed at all the edges, and he can’t do a single thing more. The very marrow in his bones protests at the thought. He saved the Wizarding World, didn’t he? Is it so much to ask for time to himself? Time to actually digest the losses he’s suffered, time to actually grieve, time to rest, time to decide who he is, and what he wants?

Irritated now, Harry pats at his lips with his napkin, stands up, and with raised arms of surrender, he tells her sternly, “I can’t, Hermione. I really can’t get involved. You know they don’t take orders from me; I can’t flick a switch, and make them write up laws to my liking. The Ministry is doing what they see fit, they’re giving the survivors of the war what they need, or want, or whatever, and, whether I like it or not, they’re going to keep doing it. I don’t want to get involved, and I trust Shacklebot, and I don’t want anymore of this, Hermione. So, please, stop asking me to change the world.”

The table falls silent, and he rubs his hands through his already-mussed hair, keeping his head down. He feels all their eyes on him, and he wants to scream.

“Please stop asking me to save everyone. I can’t. I can’t.”

He may very well start crying if he says another word, so he leaves the room at that, and ascends to Ron’s room, which has become Harry-and-Ron’s Room in the past two months. He shuts the door in a weak plea for privacy, and falls into his bed.

The ghoul upstairs even goes quiet, possibly sensing Harry's upset, and minding its own business for once.

Left to his thoughts, though, Harry poses a dangerous threat to his own sanity. It takes only a few minutes, and he starts worrying that perhaps he’s reluctant to aid the Death Eater parents only because it feels vengeful, and just.

Deep inside Harry, where that divide of good and evil sits, his darker side insists that the children of the Dark Lord’s reign _deserve_ to be orphaned. Just like he’d been – that they deserve that loneliness, and that isolation, and that heartbreak, only because _he_ suffered it, and he’s got nowhere else to put his fury. He knows that’s not okay, though. He knows that’s not right, that's not justice, and that’s not _him_.

He isn’t his darkest thoughts. It’s his choices that define him.

That does beg the question, then, though; what does inaction make him?

He turns over, scrubbing his face with dry, calloused hands, and sighing, he thinks of Malfoy.

He wonders what it was like – to get the notification that his father’s soul was gone. He wonders if Malfoy was allowed to say goodbye, if he was allowed to be there for it – if he even _wanted_ to be.

Maybe Lucius got what he deserved.

That’s a terrible thought to have had, and Harry thinks he ought to feel sorry for having it at all, but he doesn’t. He’s too Tired in that special kind of Tired way, to be sorry. Rage, and the knee-jerk reaction of wanting vengeance is something Harry understands, truly, and he’s not about to fault himself for it.

He worries, though. He worries that too much of the world is content to say ‘they deserved it,’ and walk away – himself included. It doesn’t feel right. Deciding who deserves wellness and madness, gladness and emptiness – who deserves to live and who deserves to die shouldn’t be so simple a choice to make – Harry knows that all too well. He’s been faced with that very decision before, and he never wants to be in that seat of power again.

He can’t even imagine signing off on some document that says Lucius Malfoy should be stripped of what makes him a sentient, conscious creature of the universe. How do people sleep at night with all of that weighing on them? Do they regret it? Do they wonder if they have the right to make those decisions? Whether it’s for the betterment of the wizarding world or not, that’s not a simple decision. Or, at least it _shouldn’t_ be.

Harry’s not the authority on that, either, though – the should’s and shouldn’t’s of the world. He’s not sure what he believes the former Death Eaters _deserve_ , but he knows he owes his life to Narcissa Malfoy, and, frankly, he owes it to Draco Malfoy too, arse that he is, and he can hold onto resentment, and anger toward the Malfoy’s if he wants, but he doesn’t see much point in it.

Whatever Lucius Malfoy did in his life, he managed to capture the love and loyalty of a powerful witch, and, more importantly, a woman who would mother his child, and then do all and anything it took to keep that child from harm. Someone took Lucius Malfoy away from Narcissa and from Malfoy – someone signed some document, saying it’d be best for everyone if he were just a husk of a human being, devoid of all that makes a person a person, and that doesn’t sit right with Harry, but he has no idea how to fix it. He’s got no energy to try to fix it either, even if he had a clue as to how he’d start.

He thinks then of how he wanted to confront Malfoy about why he didn’t surrender Harry to Voldemort at the Manor that fateful night, but since that last battle at Hogwarts, he’d not seen the Malfoy’s. And it’s not as if he and Malfoy are exactly pen pals. It’s not the sort of question he wants to ask on paper, anyway, even if he thought Malfoy would entertain a letter from him about anything, never mind something so serious and personal.

He imagines again, that notification the Malfoy’s must have received – that judgment has been passed down, and they were powerless to stop the Ministry. He imagines what must have gone through Narcissa’s head, through Malfoy’s head, or if they traded words or glances at all.

There were a lot of people Harry couldn’t save in the war – it will haunt him the rest of his days, no matter how many gentle hands brush his face, or arms, and tell him it’s not his fault. Of all the losses he’s suffered since the start of it all – the real start of the war – he’d never have imagined that Lucius Malfoy’s loss would feel like one of his.

Lucius Malfoy wasn’t his to save – he was a vile man, full of hatred, and fear, and ignorance, but he was someone’s husband. He was someone’s father. And having failed to save Lucius from the Dementor’s Kiss feels a lot like having left Malfoy in the Fiendfyre.

It feels a lot like helplessness, and restlessness, and uncertainty, and as the hours tick by, Harry can’t help but imagine Lucius tied up in Azkaban, Lucius making some plea for his life with no one to defend him, and then Narcissa receiving the news – Malfoy.

He thinks about Malfoy receiving the same news, he pictures Malfoy, and he can see him crying in the bathroom, panicked, trapped, and so angry – he remembers hearing from Moaning Myrtle that Malfoy cried in the lavatory regularly, and he remembers thinking that it was pitiful.

When he’s alone, times like this, lying on his bed, and letting his thoughts carry him away, he can see Malfoy clear as day.

He can see Malfoy’s hesitant arm, wand outstretched at Dumbledore, shaking under the weight of protecting his father and his mother, having already seen, heard, and felt too much. He can see the way Malfoy lowered his wand, unable, and unwilling to kill for Voldemort.

He can see Malfoy’s grey eyes, boring into his, gazing at him with some promise that Harry didn’t know Malfoy was capable of making – promising him he’d try his best to get Harry out of the Manor alive, even if it meant risking his own life, and the life of his parents. Even if it meant Voldemort storming the Manor, and killing him for his lies, and failures, and who would have protected him? Narcissa could have tried, but she’d not have intervened if she thought it would bring more harm unto her family. Lucius had no wand, and Malfoy was soon to be without his own – he’d have been defenseless.

In fact, he was.

For the first time, Harry thinks that when they left Malfoy Manor, Voldemort must have arrived, and he can’t even begin to imagine the terror Narcissa and Malfoy went through – Malfoy in particular. He _lied_. He lied for Harry – he bought Harry time, precious, life-saving time, and how he’s still alive now is beyond Harry. He doesn’t want to imagine what Voldemort must have done to Malfoy in his rage.

Harry wonders then, if he ought to have taken Malfoy with them when they left the Manor.

Maybe Malfoy was as much a prisoner of the Manor as Luna and Ollivander.

He can’t help but wonder if Malfoy is alone somewhere in the Manor now, crying into a basin and wishing for even the company of a weeping ghost for some consolation. The image feels wrong-footed and pathetic, but Harry knows it’s a real possibility, and for reasons he can’t really examine up close, he just wants it to stop.

He wishes he had never seen Malfoy crying in the bathroom that night. For more reasons than just the curse he cast.

He knows a part of Malfoy now that he can never un-know. He knows Malfoy’s got a heart, and goodness in him that was being smothered out like a dying fire all his life, and maybe all that’s left now is embers.

After several numb hours of gazing out Ron’s bedroom window at the hills, eclipsing the setting sun, Hermione knocks meekly on the door, and breaks his reverie. He calls to her to welcome her in, and she comes to sit on the bed near him. She stares down at her hands, wringing them nervously.

“I’m sorry, Harry. About earlier. I shouldn’t have –"

“It’s fine, Hermione.”

She slants her mouth at him, and mutters, “it’s really not.”

They’re quiet for a while, and then Hermione intakes a bit loudly, and tells him, “Bill – uhm… I meant to apologize, but there’s news, and I… well, uhm – Malfoy is at Fleur and Bill’s cottage.”

Bolting upright at that, Harry nearly gasps, “what? When? How do you know? Why? Is he still there? What’s he doing there? How long has he been there?”

Looking a touch surprised at the onslaught of questions, Hermione answers unsteadily, “I don’t – uhm, I don’t know? Fleur contacted Ginny just ten minutes ago – she wanted Ginny to tell _you_ about it for some reason, but Ginny doesn’t plan to say anything. You know how she is about him still. I thought… I don’t know, I thought you’d want to know.”

“Yes, I do – I’m – thank you, Hermione,” Harry breathes out gratefully, “I’ve got to go – I’ve got to see him before he leaves. You reckon he’s still there?”

“Yeah,” Hermione assures glumly, brows still knit with concern.

Ginny’s unyielding hatred for Malfoy is not uncommon, or uncalled for – she despises him, and Ron does as well. Hermione’s quiet about it, but Harry can tell too that she’s never one to forget, and not one easy to forgive, and she’s unlikely to try either for Malfoy.

Harry can’t dictate how people grieve – even if he doesn’t quite hate Malfoy like he used to, he can’t bark at everyone to just ‘get over,’ all the years of awful treatment Malfoy gave them. The same way he thinks he could shake hands with Dudley now, even make friendly conversation – it’s how he feels about Malfoy too.

The worst of the darkness is behind them, and Harry doesn’t feel like lingering there. He doesn’t precisely forgive Malfoy anything – he doesn’t forgive Dudley for being a pain in his arse either. He just doesn’t feel reddish, unreasonable loathing when he thinks of them anymore. If anything, he feels a bit of pity for them.

“ _This_ ,” Harry tells Hermione, revealing Malfoy’s wand from under his pillow, “This is why I… I’d like to know what in the world he’s doing there too, but – it’s his. I think it’d be good to return it. Especially now, with Lucius… you know… gone.”

As Harry gets up and shucks on a jacket, he hears Hermione ask curiously, “you’ve been keeping it under your pillow?”

Blushing to his ears, Harry shoves his feet into his trainers awkwardly, and tells her simply, “I don’t know why, myself. Maybe I thought someone would try to take it or something? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Anyway, it’s getting back to him now.”

He doesn’t really let Hermione speak further, always frightened of what judgment she might pass on what she considers his ‘obsession,’ with Malfoy – he takes Malfoy’s wand, rushes down the stairs to the portkey that will take him to Fleur and Bill’s cottage, and he doesn’t stop for so much as a second. He doesn’t mind after Molly’s worried voice, or even Ron’s – if he stops to explain where he’s going or why, someone might try to stop him, or he might miss Malfoy entirely. He just gets there as quickly as he can, and without any idea about what he’s to do when he’s face-to-face with Malfoy.

It’s been several months, now.

He thinks it will be odd, seeing Malfoy. He’s not sure what to expect. Whatever it is he’ll be faced with, he expects can’t be good, and he isn’t sure how he feels about that either. Worried, mostly.

He arrives in Bill’s kitchen, and walks through the cottage until he finds Bill – Bill smiles at him, and notes, “that was rather quick.”

“Sorry,” Harry apologizes, unsure why – he’s not sure what a proper response to that is, “Uhm, is everyone okay? What exactly happened? Did he say anything? Is he still – where is he?”

“He asked to see Dobby.”

Immediately, Harry pales, panic gripping him, and he’s about to lunge out the damn window to protect Dobby’s grave when Bill puts a placating hand on his shoulder, and tells him calmly, “he brought lilies, Harry. Pretty sure he just wants to pay some respects. He knocked on the door, apologized for disturbing us, and asked if it’d be alright to see Dobby – Fleur volunteered to walk him to the burial site, and they’ve been chatting away for a while now.”

Nodding, though not understanding one bit of that story, Harry gestures toward the door, about to ask to join them, worrying about being impolite, and Bill laughs at him, encouraging him to go out and find Malfoy - ease his anxious and apparent curiosity. Harry can’t help but feel a bit rude for not engaging Bill more, but he’s there for one reason, and it’s pretty obvious that he’d like to get to it, he supposes.

As he’s coming up on the sandy hill, he can hear Fleur and Malfoy speaking in French. He doesn’t understand a word of it, but it’s solemn sounding, and even polite.

“Ç'est aimable de vous.”

“C'était vraiment pas de problem,” Fleur responds.

“Même ainsi…”

Harry’s foot moves through some high grass, making a notable scratching sound, and their conversation stops. He makes his way up the rest of the hill, and then Fleur is turning toward him, and smiling weakly – maybe a bit worriedly.

“Harry,” she greets gently.

At the announcement of his arrival, Harry sort of expects Malfoy to twist around, and throw a punch or something, but all he sees happen is Malfoy’s shoulders stiffen up, and he cracks his knuckles compulsively. He doesn’t turn to face Harry at all.

“I am glad you came. I will be inside with Bill – if you need anything,” she offers awkwardly, seeming unsure of what else to say in the strangeness that is their current social situation.

Harry doesn’t help much by giving her a distracted shrug and a half-smile, but it’s all his body and brain can produce. She doesn’t appear to fault him for that; she just leaves swiftly, and then Harry is standing in the sand with Malfoy, who is impeccably dressed, and carrying white lilies, and looking entirely out of place.

Perhaps next to Fleur and her undeniable beauty, and their identical French accents, Malfoy looked a little more like he belonged, but not now.

Standing like some ivory and ebony statue in the shallow sand and whipping grass, and lavender, Malfoy looks like he was plucked from a dark, regal portrait, and dropped unceremoniously into a humble, watercolor landscape.

Malfoy’s a smudge of charcoal against pastel, and it’s bizarre – he thinks Malfoy might say something once Fleur is out of earshot, but he doesn’t. They stand in strained silence for a long few minutes, actually.

Determining that Malfoy has no intention of facing him, Harry moves first, and goes to stand opposite of Malfoy, on the other side of Dobby’s grave.

He was right to be worried about seeing Malfoy after so many months – Malfoy’s thinner, looks gaunt, and like he might vanish before Harry’s eyes – no need for the assistance of magic to do it either.

He’s ghostly against the black of his suit – the _lilies_ look more colorful than him. In the back of his mind, Harry thinks that Molly would be appalled to see a young man so thin – he hasn’t been so thin in years now, thanks to the Weasley’s, and it’s strange to see that absence of care on someone else.

He sees now why everyone worried after him so much.

Malfoy looks so fragile – it’s just not right.

“What are you doing here?”

Harry doesn’t mean for it to come out the way it does – it’s the question he _means_ , it’s just not what he should’ve _said_ and he knows that the moment Malfoy’s eyes flash up to his. They’re sharp and unforgiving as ever, cutting up Harry’s body with a single glance, the way they’ve always had that power to do.

“ _What_ , Potter?” Malfoy sneers, “Worried I’ll dig him up, and take his socks from him for a laugh? Or come to stop me from kicking his gravestone over, as I’m so obviously wont to do?”

“No,” Harry says, his lip curling in distaste, “No, that’s not what I meant, I just… I didn’t exactly… imagine to ever see you here. I didn’t mean anything by that – you just… I didn’t expect you is all.”

That punch Harry initially expected might yet come, he thinks.

A few moments pass, and the impact doesn’t come, so Harry lets the anxiety of it wash away from him.

Hesitantly, Malfoy’s eyes drop back down, and he cracks his knuckles again, bites the corner of his bottom lip with a sharp canine, and then he wordlessly places the flowers down at the base of Dobby’s tombstone. He stays knelt, his hand on the flowers, lingering with a sad finality that Harry saw at plenty of other funerals over the summer.

For a beat or so Malfoy’s entirely silent and then, without needing intervention, he speaks up, eventually mumbling, “I didn’t know – back then. I couldn’t tell the difference between the Manor’s help staff, like my tutors, and stuff, and _him_. I didn’t know he wasn’t there by choice. That he couldn’t leave. He’d been there since I was born, and I was only twelve when you freed him. I didn’t…”

Ruefully and laughably still, Harry tries to imagine growing up with Dobby – he can only imagine the type of trouble Dobby and Malfoy got up to together. He imagines Malfoy must have been a nightmare of a child – he’s always so restless, he probably offered Dobby a lot of opportunity to cause chaos.

Fascinated by Malfoy’s admissions, Harry watches how Malfoy shrugs, sighs, and adds, “even if I did know, I doubt I’d have let him go.”

_Selfish._

No one says it, but the exchange of the energy around that idea passes between them. Harry doesn’t really blame Malfoy – it always seemed like his father was the heartless monster that tortured Dobby. He never assumed Malfoy was entirely innocent in regard to his treatment of Dobby, but he only ever suspected Malfoy of bossing Dobby around like he did with Crabbe and Goyle.

It never occurred to Harry that Malfoy might have cared about Dobby.

Malfoy reaches up, and with very gentle fingers, he brushes away some grains of sand from the top of the headstone, and mentions, quietly, as if reminding only himself, “he taught me to draw stars.”

Harry’s brow furrows, and he watches Malfoy reach for a stick nearby, and stares in more heavy silence as Malfoy draws out a doodle of a star in the sand. It’s a bit wonky, in the sand, with the ground being so uneven, and with the wind pushing everything around, but its angles are all perfect, and it looks like a series of motions Malfoy’s practiced countless times.

“Like that,” Malfoy says unnecessarily, still refusing to look up at Harry – he may have even forgotten Harry’s there, “I was eight, I think. Seven or eight. I had this daft idea that because my name was a constellation, that I was meant to be spelling it in stars. As if, instead of writing out D-R-A-C-O, I was supposed to draw out these stars in a pattern, connect it with lines to make it clear it was a constellation, and just sign things off like that – and Dobby told me he didn’t know much about spelling, but he could teach me to draw stars. We took a bunch of my father’s parchment from his study, and I wouldn’t stop until I was sure I had it right. Wasted the whole day away on my bedroom floor like that. My tutor nearly had a conniption when I signed an essay with it.”

Imagining a very small, white-blonde headed boy handing in homework with a drawing for his name is, really, rather _startlingly_ endearing, and Harry snorts with some humor at the image in his head before he knows he’s made a noise at all.

That partial-laugh breaks the spell of intimate quiet that had bound them, and it appears then that Malfoy remembers he’s not actually alone. He stands up, knees cracking as he does, and then he’s brushing off some sand from his suit jacket, still skillfully avoiding eye-contact all the while.

“Well,” Malfoy starts awkwardly, already turning to walk away, “thanks for not hexing me, I suppose.”

“Wait,” Harry intercepts, unsure how he went this whole time without getting a single word in, and he’s a little shocked that Malfoy actually _does_ wait.

“I… I’ve got your wand.”

“I know.”

That… wasn’t what Harry expected to hear from Malfoy, to say the least.

“Don’t… uhm,” Harry stammers nervously, “don’t you want it back?”

Malfoy looks over his shoulder at Harry, and a wind comes by, erasing Malfoy’s messy star, and swirling Malfoy’s hair away from his face. Malfoy’s eyes are red-rimmed, exhausted, and if there weren’t recognizable distrust, and bone-deep sadness in them, Harry would think of them as void.

Maybe part of Malfoy’s soul left with his father’s.

Harry feels a bit nauseous at the thought, and shoves it away, resolutely telling himself that he doesn’t care. He doesn’t _have_ to care – certainly not about Malfoy. It’s not his fault Lucius is soulless, it’s not his fault Malfoy is suffering, and there’s nothing he can do about it. It’s not his fault, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

He keeps telling himself that.

Why it’s so difficult to believe is beyond him.

“For it to be mine again, I’d have to fight for it,” Malfoy starts, face impassive, “I don’t want to fight you anymore. I’m tired, Potter. The Ministry’s probably thrilled, too, that I haven’t got one now, so just keep it. Or break it, or throw it in the ocean for all I care.”

Frowning deeply, Harry takes a step toward Malfoy, and replies, “I don’t want to fight you either, Malfoy. I just want to return it. We’re not… it’s not like it used to be. Between us. It doesn’t have to be. The war is over.”

Malfoy scoffs, and uselessly tries to brush some of his hair out of his eyes before saying back, “the war is never over, Potter. It’s never going to be over.”

‘For us,’ goes entirely unspoken, but Harry feels it, and hears it, anyway. And he knows what Malfoy _means_ by it, and that’s even more eerie – it’s why he’s tired, and he’ll _always_ be Tired in that way sleep can’t fix.

“C-Can you please, just – take it,” Harry prompts, unnerved, hand shaking as he shows Malfoy the wand from his back pocket, “Please? Just… take it.”

Malfoy glances at the proffered hand and wand, but then he looks Harry in the eye, expression cold, and detached.

“No,” Malfoy answers firmly.

“You can’t go back to Hogwarts without one,” Harry argues, thinking he might reason with Malfoy enough that he’ll take it back.

That backfires pretty spectacularly, though.

“Yes, Potter, and I’m sure I’ll be dearly missed,” Malfoy snaps, turning away again.

“Wait – Malfoy!”

Malfoy doesn’t wait for him this time, though. He Disapparates in an instant, and Harry is left standing there in the wind, and sand with ten inches of Hawthorne, unicorn hair, and this strange combination of bereft surprise, and resentful regret.


	2. Chapter 2

“But how could he have Disapparated without a wand?” Ron asks worriedly.

Harry shrugs and Hermione crosses her arms over her legs, curling more against Ron’s side, and deeper into the cushions of the couch.

“That’s not a good sign,” she warns the two of them, “Only wizards and witches very powerful with wandless and wordless magic can Disapparate without use of a wand.”

Harry’s about to ask why Malfoy would be powerful at all with windless or wordless magic, but then he remembers the wand in his back pocket, and shuts his mouth. Of course Malfoy learned wandless and wordless magic – Harry had left him in a warzone without any weapon but his mind and hands.

He thinks to himself now that it may have been disrespectful – the way he went about giving Malfoy his wand back. That task probably wasn’t so simple and plain as a ‘take it, you can’t go to school without it,’ – not that Harry’s ever been known for his impeccable tact.

He sees now that his aloof approach easily could have been misinterpreted as some sort of ‘here, I don’t need one of your most prized possessions anymore, you can have it back now.’

Which… sounds more like a Malfoy-thing to do than anything else Harry’s ever done.

“Maybe that’s why he didn’t want it back?” Ron offers, looking between Hermione and Harry respectively, “Maybe he’s just gotten so good at wandless magic that the git doesn’t think he needs it anymore.”

If it had been about Malfoy’s pride, he’d have said something like, ‘just keep it, Potter, I imagine you must love your war trophies,’ or 'go ahead and destroy it for the reporters of The Prophet, your fanbase always loves watching you strip wizards of their power,' but he hadn’t attacked Harry’s pride or principles. He’d sort of attacked his own pride, really.

_“I don’t want to fight you anymore. I’m tired, Potter. The Ministry’s probably thrilled too that I haven’t got one now, so just keep it. Or break it, or throw it in the ocean for all I care.”_

Keep it, break it, toss it away where it would never be found again – the fact that he even admitted he was tired, and unwilling to fight Harry anymore was enough for Harry to believe his declination of the wand had little to do with Malfoy's pride, if pride played into it at all.

No, it hadn’t felt like a matter of pride.

“I don’t think that’s it,” Harry admits, pacing the carpeted floor, gesturing vaguely, “It was more like… I think he just hates that I’ve had it for so long? I think he hates that I’ve had it at all, actually. It wasn’t about him being proud, or anything, it was… he wasn’t being hateful, he just… I could tell. The way he looked at me…”

The dim light of the early evening had graced Malfoy’s face, still handsome and aristocratic despite its dour expression, and he would’ve looked rather normal like that. He sort of always looked put-upon, and posh-to-the-nth-degree as long as Harry had known him, but he held himself differently now, and his eyes were so accusatory in that moment.

Not just for the wand either.

With all that thick scent of lavender in the air, the ocean salt, and prickling of sand in the wind – even with all that to digest around him, Harry could see in Malfoy’s Tired eyes so much loathing, so much disdain. He resented Harry for having his wand, for keeping it – that was clear enough, yes, but in the way he _looked_ at Harry, it felt like Malfoy blamed him for _everything_.

That gunmetal stare, boring into him, telling him that it was Harry’s fault Malfoy had lost his wand, that it was Harry’s fault he’d not gotten it back, that it was Harry’s fault Dobby was dead, that it was Harry’s fault Malfoy was once a child that drew his name instead of spelling it, and got in trouble for it – that Harry was at fault for the world at large.

Malfoy looked at him like Harry was the catalyst to all disputes, between muggle or magic folk alike, that he was the foundation upon which Wizarding Wars had been built, battled, won, and lost, and not just the one he only recently ended. Malfoy looked at him like he’d managed all of the magical world, like he was the puppeteer of the entire continent’s consumption and production of magic, and anything that had ever gone wrong or right was still his fault somehow.

Malfoy looked at him like Harry had put together Hogwarts with his bare hands, brick by brick, invited Malfoy into its protective walls, kept him just outside of contentment’s reach, and then he’d invited Voldemort there himself, orchestrated the battle as a personal attack on Malfoy, and then he’d taken a good look at Hogwarts and torn it down as well and easily as he’d somehow built it into existence.

When Malfoy had looked at him from over his shoulder, his blonde hair whipping around his face, his lips a dry, thin line of malcontent, his body lithe and wired, standing before Harry, but still feeling like Malfoy’s entire corporeal self might fall away to dust at the slightest touch – he had looked at Harry, and Harry felt blamed with righteous fury.

Harry felt the blame of worlds land firmly on his back – worlds that would have tossed Atlas over, never mind the shrug, or those worlds would have landed on his shoulders, and ground his bones to powder. He could have been crushed beneath the weight of it – of all that responsibility, all of that blame, all of that resentment – for all that had ever happened.

Malfoy didn’t resent him for being well-liked, or for being the Chosen One, or being the so-called ‘hero,’ of the Wizarding World. If ever Malfoy really did resent him for those things in the past, he didn’t now.

From what Harry could see in Malfoy’s eyes, Malfoy hated him for all of time and space – for every decision everyone ever made that lead him in the path of Harry’s. Malfoy hated that they existed at the same time, he hated that they were close in age, and in skill, he hated that they existed in the same spaces – like standing across a small grave from each other, boarding the same trains, sitting in the same classrooms, at the same school, in the same country, on the same continent, on the same planet.

Thinking about it, Harry supposed that was worse.

He’d prefer Malfoy just hate him, blindly and snobbishly, but he doesn’t. He hates the universe, he hates how he feels, who he is and isn't, what he’s done and left undone, what he can and can’t do, what his life has been molded into, and he knows – Malfoy definitely, rationally knows Harry can’t be held accountable for all the happenings of the universe.

Harry’s just a personification of the universe, of all that Malfoy hates, and really _that’s_ the thing Malfoy hates. He hates it. He hates the experience of chaos through human sentience – it’s why he doesn’t care what happens to his wand, because perhaps having his wand is just as well as not having it, or having twelve of them, or having infinite supplies of them, because staying safe is as well as dying, and he hates _that_ chaos, and Harry knows this, because he feels it too, and he felt that desperation, and that anger, and that looming, dark sense of inevitability that he saw in Malfoy.

He recognized it in Malfoy’s eyes, because he’s seen the same hatred in his own eyes, staring back at him from the bathroom mirror on late nights.

Malfoy hates the big, unknowable thing that’s too short-lived when it’s lived well, and lagging when it’s unforgivingly painful. Malfoy hates that he can’t even fully conceptualize all that he hates feeling, and being, and doing, so it’s internalized, and it’s settled in his blood like rain on a windowsill.

So, why should he hate Harry?

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t hate Harry.

That revelation is so sudden, and dizzying, Harry could topple over from it, but instead he feels himself pale, and some sort of crumpling sensation ripples through his chest cavity.

Malfoy doesn’t hate Harry. Harry’s just a pawn of all of that is and isn’t, and can and can’t, and does and doesn’t, and Malfoy doesn’t feel _anything_ about _Harry_.

He doesn’t feel a thing at all for Harry.

And Harry had no idea he could feel worse, but here he is now, thinking of having a lie down and never getting up again.

It’s dreadful to imagine – that he’s _nothing_ to Malfoy. That Malfoy looks at him, and he may as well be a box, or a chair, or a shallow grave, or a wand, or anyone, or anything at all – he’s just a symptom of the chaos. He’s just as unknowable to Malfoy – so insurmountable that Malfoy stares into the inevitability of Harry's being, and feels nothing.

His eyes weren’t steely because he hates Harry – they were Tired, they were red-rimmed, and they were _void_. They were apathetic.

He looked on Harry, and he felt an absence of feeling. He doesn’t care one bit one way or another, what happens to his wand, or Harry, or the world, or himself.

Maybe he could see in Harry’s expression, maybe he could see in Harry’s eyes the same way that Harry saw in his, that Harry understood. Maybe he saw Harry’s empathy for his apathy, and hates him for that as well – hates the universe, hates the chaos, hates everything Harry means to him, but feels nothing for the man himself.

Harry was never really in want for Malfoy’s good grace, but he finds, rather quickly, that he’d much prefer Malfoy despise him than feeling nothing for him.

That Malfoy, perhaps, feels nothing for him at all borders on… terrifying.

And Harry can’t tell why.

“What way?”

“What?” Harry wonders, stumbling clumsily out of his reverie.

The fireplace is still crackling, and The Burrow still surrounds him, and he’d probably gotten lost around one of the darker street corners of the bad neighborhood his mind presents, based on Hermione and Ron’s expressions. He does that sometimes - trails off mid-conversation, and can't be brought back without something smacking the back of his head, or something just as obtrusive.

Hermione cocks a brow at him, and asks, “what way did he look at you that makes you so sure he’s not feeling hateful more than pompous?”

Humorously, Ron’s brows spring up in regard to Hermione’s word choice, and Harry would typically laugh at one of those Ron-Being-Baffled-And-Endeared faces, but his heart’s too heavy.

And there is absolutely no way Harry could possibly communicate his meditations on Malfoy’s expression. Not only would he trip over every word, and barely make a lick of sense, but he’d undoubtedly fail to convey all of it, and how and why it makes the sense that it does.

He sighs deeply, feeling those worlds crumble along his strained back.

“I just… I just know,” he eventually answers.

It looks like Hermione is about to say something in response when Ginny descends the stairs, and gives them all a long look-over.

Conversation screeches to a halt whenever she enters the room – it’s been common practice since the end of the war, and none of the trio seems to do it on purpose. It’s involuntary, but consistent. It’s not as though they’re plotting anything illegal, or nefarious, or speaking ill of anyone, there’s no reason to hide anything from Ginny, but still, they seem to shift onto less volatile subject matters as soon as she arrives.

Harry thinks that, perhaps beneath all the ‘Keep Calm and Carry On,’ business Hermione and Ron have been up to since they returned from Hogwarts, that they too, feel like Ginny’s drifted from them. Or that they have, inadvertently, drifted from her.

The trials of last year, the life-and-death decisions they had to make for each other, the entire hunt for the Horcruxes and Hallows brought he, Hermione, and Ron, close in a way few may ever feel to anyone in all a lifetime and, a bit unfairly, it’s left Ginny out in the cold. Harry doesn’t know how to fix it and, it would appear, that neither do Hermione, or Ron.

“Well, don’t let me stop you all,” Ginny mumbles, descending to the ground floor, and shuffling into the kitchen.

She doesn’t sound to be in a good mood, but Harry doesn’t try to think too much about it. He’s had enough emotional analyzing for a single day.

“If she’s rummaging in the kitchen, it’s probably well past two in the morning,” Ron mentions worriedly.

Had they really been up talking so long?

Harry feels like it’s been barely an hour since he got back.

He did do a fair bit of rambling, though, perhaps lost track of the time – he certainly did too much talking about how well Bill and Fleur are looking, so he didn’t come across as how rude he actually was in his dismissiveness of them to get to Malfoy. He definitely talked too long on how the cottage is just the same as they remember it last, but maybe less depressing, how Dobby’s tombstone is in good condition, seeming untouched by time or weather, how Malfoy looked ill, how Malfoy brought lilies, and how he heard Malfoy and Fleur speaking in French, and wish he’d been able to understand them.

He didn’t mention the drawings of stars, or Malfoy’s childhood ignorance of Dobby’s plight.

Somehow, it just didn’t seem like decent conversation – like he’d seen something private, and special to someone else, and it wasn’t his to share.

He’s content enough to be the only one to know precisely what Malfoy said and did at the grave – it’s not for Hermione, or Ron, or Ginny, or anyone else, for that matter, to know. He doesn’t think Malfoy trusted him with that sentimental information as much as he forgot Harry was there, listening to him, maybe believing he’d Vanished Harry out of sheer force of will. Harry thinks he’ll keep it private, anyway.

“Well, _I’m_ off then,” Hermione announces, standing from the couch.

She looks down at Ron who stares fondly back at her, and she smirks shyly, embarrassed by the eternal adoration Ron’s let show on his face since the battle at Hogwarts.

“No goodnight-kiss?” Hermione asks – it’s half a joke, but like all these things with Ron, she has to go seeking it before he’ll invite himself to her.

“Would you like one?” Ron answers back, smiling like he’s surprised that she still wants to be kissed by him.

She rolls her eyes, and nods and, dutifully, Ron stands up, kisses her chastely and sweetly, and says, “goodnight, Hermione. Sweet dreams.”

At public displays of affection, Harry often gags, but he’s happy – if a little envious – to see Ron and Hermione get on so well. It’s a bit funny too, if he’s honest, the way nothing can throw Hermione off her game like a gentle, sweet something from Ron when it’s unexpected. She gets so flustered by his affections, it looks like she’d prefer fighting with him like they used to do, but she certainly won’t be the first to start it.

Instead of pushing him in the chest, or otherwise instigating something that would send Ron mixed signals, she tucks some of her hair behind her ear, and turns away from him, muttering a, “thank you. Sweet dreams to you too,” then she looks at Harry, smiles, and says, “goodnight.”

He replies in the same, and she follows Ginny back up the stairs, leaving the boys with the fireplace crackling, and some strange silence.

“You staying up, mate?”

Harry shrugs, feeling exhausted, but not particularly sleepy.

“Dunno. I’ll try. I mean, I'll try to sleep.”

“You should,” Ron suggests, looking pinched, and worried, “You should get some sleep if you can. Mum always said you can't keep burning the candle at both ends.”

“Stop making your forehead do that thing,” Harry jokes, gesturing at his own face, “Your mother makes the same exact face at me when I’m not eating enough by her standards.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Harry,” Ron begins seriously, stepping toward him, “I don’t wanna boss you around, or annoy you, or anything. I’m here, you know, if you wanna talk about… well, whatever, I guess. I just… I’ve lost you once already, mate. Don’t really fancy having another go at it. That’s all.”

Trying his best to smile, Harry nods to Ron; Ron doesn’t mean he’s worried Harry will die of sleep depravation. Harry knows that. Ron seems much more worried these days that Harry might actually kill himself, even in some passive way. Ron sees Harry’s weariness for what it is – this restless unhappiness filling up the cavity left in him post-war that itches, it bothers, it begs for relief like a stubborn full-body ache that lingers after a flu.

Like he’s bed-bound, wounds still fresh, fever just broken, and left so weak by the ravaging virus that he is only able to wait for some sign of wellness to come again – maybe, in the worst of the illness, having forgotten what wellness even felt like. He just lies in that proverbial hospital bed, waiting for some sign of relief he may not even recognize when it comes back to him.

 _I am depleted_ , Harry thinks grimly to himself.

“Maybe take a bath? Warm bath might help you unwind enough to sleep. No one’s up, and I’ll be out like a light once I hit the pillow – you know how I am. You could hog all the hot water too, and not worry about it.”

That actually sounds nice, Harry decides.

“Yeah,” he tells Ron, “I think I’ll do that. Thanks.”

“O’course,” Ron huffs, as if his ideas are always so brilliant, and Harry’s-wellness-oriented.

With a smile and a hug, the two part ways, and Ron crawls into bed, as promised, and Harry disappears into the bathroom.

Harry only turns the lights on when the door is shut entirely, and he locks it for good measure, despite not really caring for enclosed spaces much anymore - not that he ever did. He thinks his distaste for locked rooms, or tight spaces with no evident exit route, probably has a lot to do with how the Dursley’s treated him, and where he slept for the first decade of his life, but he’s not really inclined to think about that past.

That past seems so far now, in fact, it barely feels like his own.

Besides, the cupboard under the stairs was hardly the worst of it – there were the underground chambers of his first year at Hogwarts, all with no option of turning back, and the Devil’s Snare was certainly a treat to someone already predisposed to some claustrophobia.

Then, of course, the pipes and sewer lines that made up the Chamber of Secrets in his second year, then the Whomping Willow, and the Shrieking Shack of his third year, the underwater challenge and maze challenges of his fourth year – everything about Umbridge in fifth year, the Department of Mysteries mishap barely scratching the surface of what degree of Awful that year would entail.

Then sixth year – the cave with Dumbledore, being bloody paralyzed, and swept under his own invisibility cloak, left to watch him die, and unable to do a thing about it. And seventh year…

Well, Harry supposes, he never really had one. He hopes he does get one – despite it being a sort of eighth year instead. But living out of small tents, within the borders of Hermione’s protective charms, getting locked up in Gringotts, being bound and imprisoned at the Manor, the Room of Requirement and its destruction – diving into that bloody freezing water for the sword, and nearly dying on his way down…

Yeah, Harry can safely say he doesn’t particularly care for small spaces much. He likes that he can lock the door to the bathroom, though – it gives him some sense of control.

He runs the bath and lets steam fill up the room, and he undresses, glancing in the mirror above the sink every now and again as he does. He sees the new(er) scars that mark up his body from the final battle, and the year of hunting, and he sees the older ones as well; the bumpy skin left on his hand that still roughly reads as ‘I must not tell lies,’ the small indent over his left brow that Malfoy put there during a fist-fight in their third year, the scar on his arm from where his blood was taken to resurrect Voldemort…

As he undresses, and takes stock of what he really should be familiar with at this point, he idly wonders where all the dirt has gone.

He looks at his toned arms and slight body hair, thinking of all the ash, the dirt, and blood, and sweat, that had once decorated his body, and he wonders how in the world it ever got off him.

There used to be a thin layer of grime that sat on him like a second skin – long before Hogwarts, and all he’d face in the years to come. He was always sweaty from chores, in wrinkled or unwashed clothes, or dirty, grassy, and sweaty from staying outside the Dursley’s house for as long as possible - he was always dirty from one thing or another, and even when he bathed and showered, it never really felt like he was clean. He feels clean now, but he doesn’t recall when that happened.

When the very personalized, special brand of grime-sweat-tears-blood-dirt-ash-and-miscellaneous filth had come off him, he can't remember.

He tries to just be glad that his skin feels clean, rather than dwelling on why it is that he feels clean now, and if he deserves to feel clean.

It takes him a few minutes to actually get himself into the tub – he always runs it just a bit too hot, and his skin turns reddish under the heat of it. It’s nice, though. All his muscles tense up first, and then are forced to relax under the heat, and it feels like a small accomplishment when he’s actually in the tub, water to his chest, and sweat beading at his temples.

He shuts his eyes, and when the water sloshes with his legs straightening out, he can feel the splash of the frozen pond as he slipped under the ice, he can feel the pulsating presence of Godric Gryffindor’s sword, and as he sinks in the tub, the water rising to his collarbone, he can feel the locket tightening around his neck. He can remember how his vision blurred, blackened, how panic had consumed him, and then there’d been nothing, and then there’d been Ron.

He tries to focus on that part – the Ron part. When he steps into showers and baths now, it’s what he has to do so that he doesn’t slip, or faint, or give himself heart palpitations. He focuses on the relief he felt when Ron pulled him out of Death’s icy strangle, he zeroes in on the feeling of completion in having his brother back to him, even if he was still royally pissed with Ron at the time – a part of his heart had been returned to him, and he was glad, beneath it all, despite how they’d left things. Ron more than made it up to him, in the end, so he doesn't really look back on that memory with any ill feelings.

Trying harder to relax (which is an infuriating paradox, Harry has found), he thinks about reaching for some soap, and something to wash himself better with, but his apathy stops him. It’s not that he’s tired, or that his body is paralyzed with fear, or flashbacks of some sort, he just can’t do it – it’s like his brain is stuck in molasses, and he can’t even bring himself to care about it.

He once described that to Hermione, hoping she’d have a simple answer for him – like drink this certain type of tea before bedtime, or maybe he just needed some more sunlight, or a dog, or something. Instead, she’d frowned at him, and told him ‘that sounds an awful lot like Executive Dysfunction, Harry.’ She’d gone on for a while about what it meant, what it implied about his mental health (or lack thereof), but all he got from her talk was the idea that sometimes, his brain forces his body to give up on things, even simple things, because it’s too much to do.

Sometimes he won’t make himself tea, even if he really needs something to soothe his throat, or he won’t make himself dinner – won’t so much as reheat something Molly’s already left ready for him, because there just seems like too many steps between him and food, or him and tea, or him and soap.

He genuinely hopes he’s not going mad. He, in no way, has been manic or crazed the past months, but he has recently considered himself unfeeling in the face of things he’d normally have been sensitive to. Just like he’d reacted at the breakfast table earlier that day. The _Old Him_ would have been on Hermione’s side in an instant, ready to storm any castle, rescue any damsel, and he knew that, and he knew that _she_ knew that, and he knew that _Ron_ knew that, and that Ron knew about Hermione and Harry knowing as well, and all of them knowing all of the knowing it, and not saying it was making him even more inclined to believe he was losing his mind.

Because, really, that entire train of thought is mad.

He knows Ron and Hermione have noticed his decline in empathy, and he’s not spoken to Ginny about it, but he thinks she’s rather caught on anyway. Ron’s been walking on eggshells all summer – but even a few weeks into summer, he asked Harry if he was ‘okay,’ in this delicate, strange way when Harry was sure he was giving no tells to his mental state, and besides being subtle about his emotional decline, Harry knew then that it likely took Ron days of observation to reach the conclusion that a general inquiry was necessary.

Hermione, on the other hand, had been giving him warning, worrisome glances from the very end of the battle, to the recent weeks, and she would be pointedly silent whenever he acted out of character. She clearly knows something is off about him, but she’s not one to interrogate him – his temper’s been a bit unpredictable lately. He doesn’t blame her for shying away from confrontation, but even without confrontation, she lets him know that they both know something is wrong. She just uses her eyes and arms to demonstrate concern generally, instead of her words.

Harry hopes then that Hermione and Ron don’t talk about him when he isn’t there – that’s probably wishful thinking, knowing the two of them, but he still hopes it. He hates that. He can’t even properly describe why. He only knows that he doesn’t appreciate being a topic of discussion behind closed doors.

He used to not care – he used to be front-page-of- _The_ - _Prophet_ topic of discussion, and he didn’t care beyond being slightly aggravated. He can’t tell what’s changed. Maybe now that the war is over, he just wants some semblance of privacy?

He’s not sure he even knows what privacy is like.

Opening his eyes again, and sitting up, so that the water ripples and splashes up against his chest and back, he lolls his head round, relaxing what muscles he can and eventually slouches again.

The tub is small, he decides. The room is small, The Burrow is small, the country is small, the continent is small, the world is small – Harry thinks about getting on his broom and flying, but his body and brain rebel against the series of motions that would require as well. The apathy grows on him like a mold.

He wonders if Malfoy still flies, recreationally.

He imagines going back to Hogwarts, and Malfoy not being there, and it’s… not right.

It’s just not right.

Malfoy is a staple, he’s an essential element of the Hogwarts experience for Harry, and he’s really rather incited at the idea that Malfoy could so easily walk away from Hogwarts, and from Harry as well.

He looks over the lip of the tub, at his discarded clothes, and sees Malfoy’s wand sticking out from the pocket of his jeans. He feels his brow tense up and his mouth curve down.

Malfoy is like the Portrait of Walburga Black in Grimmauld Place – hardly pleasant, hateful, shrill, annoying, and with all her unbearable howling at perceived slights, everyone would go out of their way to make her just _shut up_ , but she was _there_. She was and still is a _part_ of Grimmauld Place as long as Harry has known it, and one can feel her presence and vague disapproval even when she was silent – as loathsome a thing she can be, she’s still undeniably part of the foundation of what makes Grimmauld Place, Grimmauld Place.

Malfoy might be a pain in his arse, but the very thought of not having someone to shout at and argue with over the Quidditch pitch makes his stomach cramp.

Ever since Harry was introduced to the world of magic, there’d been a boy with white-blonde hair, a bizarre sense of entitlement, a competitive and mean streak, and if he’s not in the world of magic anymore, it’s like one of the pillars holding that world together is gone. It's like presenting a globe to him and just removing Asia altogether, and telling him that Asia simply didn't feel inclined to stay on maps or globes anymore, and he'd just have to acclimate to the new globe-without-Asia.

He thinks about writing a letter to Malfoy like that, expressing that he must return to Hogwarts, because Hogwarts doesn’t make _sense_ if he’s not there, but he’s not sure he’d know how to word it.

‘Dear Malfoy,

I’d like to begin by saying that you’re bloody awful, and you make every single social encounter an-honest-to-God nightmare, but I’d appreciate it if you just took your fucking wand back, and stopped burdening me with your cosmic loneliness, and just got your snobby arse back to Hogwarts. You see, I have developed some strange neurosis’s over the past year or so, and have some maladaptive attachment to your existence, so stop being a prat for five seconds of your life, and just go back to Hogwarts so I can have some peace of mind, thanks.

Sincerely,

Harry Potter’

Somehow Harry doesn’t think that would go over well.

He snorts to himself, imagining the way Malfoy sneers like a terrible odor has just passed him when he’s affronted, and how offended he’d be at a message like that. Then the humor dies away, Harry crosses his arm over the lip of the tub, and rests his chin on his forearms, staring blearily at the wand on the floor.

Ever since Harry was introduced to the world of magic, there’d been a boy with white-blonde hair, a bizarre sense of entitlement, a competitive and mean streak, but also a grace and sophistication to him that Harry could never dream of imitating. There'd been a boy that was always neck-to-neck with Hermione in grades, his Charms were always perfect, his Potions always exceeded expectation, and he seemed to have an innate gift for the arts of Divination. He's bilingual, and dresses formally everywhere he goes, and he's always been something just out of reach.

He’s a damn good seeker too.

Harry thinks he ought to have told Malfoy that – at least once in their years together at school. Especially now that the very real possibility that he’ll never have reason to speak to Malfoy again grows ever more true. Malfoy flies like he walks; perfect form, with an air of majesty, proud ease, and a dare in his eyes to try and stop him.

When Malfoy flew, the qualities most associated with Gryffindor would show in him – he’d make these split-second decisions, dive further, risk injury, fly higher, speed faster – he’d be daring, and brave, and curious, and so solely focused, it wasn’t just a game to him. It was pride, and skill, and a showcase of talent, and he’d go above and beyond trying to prove himself, and Harry always, somewhere deep down, admired that.

When he thinks of facing off with the Slytherin Quidditch team, minus Malfoy, Harry is overcome with a sense of boredom and disappointment.

If Malfoy’s not playing, it’s just not worth it.

And that was never a thought Harry imagined he’d have in his life.

But even when Gryffindor was playing Hufflepuff, or Ravenclaw, Malfoy was still there in the seats, still watching, and whether Harry caught him or not, he knew Malfoy was watching _him_. He performed better for it - Malfoy, for all the pain he is, brings out the best in Harry. He forces Harry to try harder, to do better, to not be outdone. 

If Malfoy’s not playing, if Malfoy’s not going to watch the games and shout insults at Harry to distract him from the snitch during other house games, what is the point?

If Malfoy isn’t going to snoop around Diagon Alley, and show-up all the less financially secure students with his ridiculously overpriced books, and robes, and accessories, what is the point of going? What's there to see?

If Malfoy isn’t going to be lurking the corridors at night, pacing in his Prefect bedroom during bouts of anxiety that Harry can see from the Marauder’s Map – if Malfoy isn’t going to glance at him every now and again during Potions, invariably be paired with him during Defense Against the Dark Arts, be lingering about on the Astronomy Tower, what is the point of attending Hogwarts at all?

If Malfoy isn’t there, nothing feels like it's worth going to the trouble for.

Harry sighs deeply, slipping deeper into the water, until steam is spiraling up his nostrils and loosening his sinuses in a way that makes his eyelids heavy.

It all feels so unfinished.

He stares at Malfoy's wand, and all he can think of, or feel, is _INCOMPLETE_. Glaring, and loud, and banging at the inside of his skull.

He’s not sure how, or if, he’ll even be capable of it, but Harry knows he has to get Malfoy back to Hogwarts. It’s just one more year – Harry saved the git’s arse more than once, the least he could do is complete a seventh/eighth year at Hogwarts as a dark piece of furniture in the cramped room that is Harry’s strange life. It’s a small favor to ask, all things considered.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Death/murder mention and also Harry being a non communicative partner. He's not being abusive towards Ginny, but he's definitely not being present or as kind as he could be.
> 
> Also, lots more signs of depression in this update. I swear the fic will brighten up eventually, it's just gonna take a hot minute to get through the angst <3

August passes with little to do, and Harry suffers through the restlessness without complaint.

The weather’s humid, but not unpleasant, and he spends a lot of time helping Molly garden with Hermione; it helps keep his hands busy, and his mind focused, rather than wandering aimlessly in a fog. If nothing else is gained, Molly at least appreciated the help.

Harry keeps Malfoy’s wand under his pillow still (he tells himself it’s not strange to do, no matter what Hermione’s inquisitive stares imply), Ginny’s birthday is a quiet celebration, and they share a very strange kiss over her cake. It feels forced on Harry’s part, and Ginny definitely notices. Everyone notices, actually. It's rather embarrassing.

They wind up talking about it later, because for the life of him, Harry can’t outrun strongly-opinionated women willing to spend the immense energy it takes to get Harry to talk about anything of real consequence.

He tells her what he knows; he’s fatigued in a way sleep isn’t helping, he’s drained, and sad, and feeling estranged. He doesn’t indicate that he’s feeling estranged from _her_ in particular, which would be the whole truth - he only tells her that he feels ‘far away.’ She asks him what he wants, or needs, from her, if they should spend more time together to help ease the canyon between them, reestablish some common ground, and he tells her that he doesn’t know what he wants, or needs, and to please stop asking after him - that it only makes him feel worse, because he doesn't have answers.

He's at least honest about that; he tells her that being in a constant shrugging state of 'I don't know what I need, or want,' isn't pleasant, or easy, and asking him what he needs, or wants, doesn't help.

Ron and Hermione seem to understand that - they don't ask him what he needs, they just take stock of him, and tell him what to do, or do it themselves.

Ron doesn't ask Harry what Harry needs - Ron just tells him to go have a bath, to try to sleep if he can, and implies that he'd prefer Harry not try to kill himself anytime soon.

Hermione doesn't ask what Harry wants, she just coerces him outside to garden; she said the sunlight would do him good, and having something to put his mind to would help, and it has. Hermione will bring Harry tea, and Ron just presents him with food at appropriate hours, and keeps by him whether he eats or not, and that's really what Harry needs right now - he doesn't know how to vocalize that without it sounding strange, though.

He needs people to just _do_ the things he needs, and wants, and stop asking him to delegate personal, emotional tasks that he already feels guilt over needing. He doesn't know how to say that without saying, 'stop asking me what I need, or how I am, or what I want, and just read my mind, and do for me what I don't even recognize I need done.'

Maybe he's less frustrated with her during that argument, and more frustrated with himself. Either way, he refuses to apologize for snapping at her, and she doesn’t like that he pushes her away - and he doesn’t like it either, but he finds himself inappropriately aggravated, and he doesn’t apologize.

It's fairly apparent that she expected him to hug her, and tell her he was sorry for the distance he'd put between them, that he'd try harder, and she'd be able to sigh in his arms, and feel safe again, but how could he offer her safety when he doesn't feel safe himself? He can't offer her certainty, or happiness, or safety, or confidence, because he's been bled dry of all those things since the war's end.

Her disappointment is palpable. Harry’s fairly certain he ruins that birthday and, apology for emotional distance aside, he’d be sorry he settled a fog of discontent over the day, but he’s also very numb. Lately, he’s pretty bad at feeling sorry for anything, or anyone other than himself, which he also feels terrible over.

Aside from all that drama, Ron and Hermione are chaste, and sweet, and Harry envies them – what connection they have is built on such strong foundation, and he doesn’t feel like he has any foundation left with Ginny, if it ever were strong to begin with. He feels like he’s an entirely different person than the one she met, and loved. He doesn’t know who he is, so how is he meant to know how he feels about her anymore? Or anyone else, for that matter?

He knows she’d not react well to hearing that, though, so he doesn’t say that. Not to anyone.

Harry is relatively sure that the only time he smiles at all in August is when he’s at a swimming hole with the Weasley’s, and catches Hermione ogling Ron.

Ron doesn’t notice, of course – Harry doesn’t think Ron knows he has any sex appeal at all, especially to Hermione, and so he’s definitely not trying to catch her looking, but he ought to be.

Harry catches her often enough, and while they're at the swimming hole, he sits next to her in the soft grass, watching Ron swing from a tree vine like Tarzan, and he says simply, “you know, if you made passes at his arse as often as you stare at it, he's sharp enough to figure out that you'd like more than hand-holding.”

Appalled, and flustered beyond reason, Hermione resolves to shove Harry into the water, fully-clothed, while spluttering expletives. He laughs when he breaks the surface, and he smiles at her glaring, rosy face.

“’Mione, you should know violence is never the answer.”

“Violence is _sometimes_ the answer,” she corrects, looking close to laughter.

Whether that’s an indirect admission that she is, in fact, lusting after Ron or not is never established, because Ron sees Harry in the water, and decides the best use of his momentum is to sling himself onto Harry’s shoulders and head like a spider monkey.

The both of them topple over, and Hermione’s far too smug when Harry comes slumping out of the water, Ron laughing boisterously behind him – she clearly thinks justice has been served.

Harry tends to disagree.

Every update the family gets on the reconstruction of Hogwarts, Harry contemplates writing to Malfoy about – maybe just to ask if Malfoy is getting the same updates, if McGonagall has invited him back, or kept his mother up-to-date with the reparations. He wants to ask why Malfoy won't take his wand back, but he thinks that's a little useless to ask about - it's a big, existential crisis they're both experiencing, and Harry understands it without understanding it. He empathizes, he supposes. He'll never understand Malfoy, but he can at least empathize with the struggle he saw in Malfoy's eyes. No matter the case, August passes without Harry making any attempt to contact Malfoy, and September is no different.

September makes for a nice ebb and flow, though – it feels like the dust has settled in a way, like whatever ‘normal,’ is now, that they’re close to it.

 _The Prophet_ isn't overloaded with trial information, arrests, missing persons, or obituaries. It's a bit more uplifting, come September.

Despite that, all September, Harry does really wish he were back at Hogwarts. He misses the moving stairs, the long corridors, the ghosts, and portraits, and dormitories. He misses having deadlines, having a place to be, a job to fulfill. He misses feeling useful, purposeful – September is comfortable, mostly, it’s just… inert.

Perhaps Harry ought to be grateful for that? He’s not sure.

Hermione’s birthday passes then too, mid-September, and Ron insists on taking her out to London – Harry can’t be sure where Ron was hoarding away that money (possibly under the floorboards? Harry can’t prove anything, though), but he stowed away enough to keep Hermione’s second birthday without her parents distracting, and entertaining enough that she didn’t seem to think about it.

According to Ron (and later, Hermione), he took her to some immensely overpriced and fancy restaurant, on a carriage ride, and then dancing. It was nearly three in the morning when the two arrived at the front door, looking windswept, flowers in either of their mussed hairs, looking perhaps a bit drunk, and glad.

Just _glad_.

Harry’s internalized envy turns to sadness quickly as he watches them ascend the stairs together, giggling and trying to catch a few hours of sleep before the Weasley’s spend the next day hogging Hermione’s attention with gifts, and good food.

He isn’t sad for anything in particular – not that he could place, anyway.

Watching them, though… the sadness just washes over him.

He wonders why he doesn’t have that, why it feels like he _can’t_ have that – he wonders if he’s broken, too broken to fix, too broken to be so simply happy again.

He wonders if Ginny resents him for not showing her as good a time as Ron is doing for Hermione, and he thinks to himself that she probably does. He thinks to himself that, if he were her, he'd be resentful of himself.

Ginny’s wonderful, but she’s also a strong personality – her happiness is like bright rays of sunlight, and her unhappiness is like dark, ominous clouds. He feels it even when she’s not there, staring at him in a way that makes him feel like he’s missed something (which he probably has). There's so much to like about her, there's so much that makes sense, and so much familiarity, and comfort, in saying she's his, and vice versa, but he still feels... not right.

So, after Hermione and Ron collapse in their respective rooms, he sits on the couch until the sun rises, feeling sorrier and sorrier for himself as the morning comes, and he lets himself sit in his terribly lonely smog.

October starts out fine, regular updates on Hogwarts come in the mail bi-weekly, the paper, and radio reports almost daily that the Ministry is rebuilding itself from the ground up, and job postings begin to pop up for professors, and staff, and Ministry workers.

It’s encouraging.

When he smiles at the paper, or the radio, he catches Ginny's eye, and she smiles back at him. She worries, and he knows she does, and he wishes he could stop worrying everyone. Especially her. She deserves to start feeling safe, and free, the way she was always meant to feel.

He thinks his smiles might be a little sad, but she accepts them as they come, and she gives him space, which he's eternally grateful for. He doesn't know if it's helping or not, but it's at least causing him less upset, and that's enough for now.

Harry has all of two weeks to enjoy the prospect of returning to Hogwarts soon, because as soon as he lets his guards down, things fall apart, as usual.

October relaxes him, a little joy even touches his heart, he laughs a little more, he hugs Ginny, and she hugs him back, and he apologizes for their fight on her birthday, and she tells him she's not mad, she's only concerned for him. He thanks her instead of snapping.

That's got to be an improvement, right?

He tells her he's trying, though he's not sure what at, but she seems to understand anyway. She always does. She tells him she knows he's trying, and she'll be there when he succeeds at the Whatever he's trying to be, or do, or feel.

Hermione and Ron are happy, and silly, the garden is surrounded by charms that keep the plants in pristine condition, and he might be sleeping a bit better, he might be feeling a little less lonely, a little less like the world is banging on the door of his mind, and incessantly ringing the doorbell of his consciousness, and then in the second week of October, a Ministry worker knocks on the door of The Burrow.

Looking for Harry, of course.

The man doesn’t looked pleased to be there – whether that has to do with the state of The Burrow, Harry’s existence, or something else altogether, Harry can’t tell.

The grumpy git is very nicely dressed, though, and aside from looking vaguely offended by nothing at all, he’s solemn, even grim. Which isn't promising.

After asking for audience alone with Harry, they sit across from each other in the family room. It’s silent for too long, the Ministry worker (who only briefly introduced himself as Lorcan Van Hoorn) sets a black envelope on the table between them, and Harry’s close to asking what in the world the man is doing there, just to get things moving along, when very familiar looking documents unravel in the air.

The file levitates between their heads, and Van Hoorn announces quietly, “here in is set forth, the last will and testament of Narcissa Malfoy – ‘to Harry James Potter, I leave my last request, greatest wish, and what has served as my sole purpose in this life. I hope your forgiveness is as far-reaching as your influence in this world. I would say that I’m sorry I never had the chance to know you well, but I daresay my son couldn’t be bothered with conversation not revolved around you. Every summer was a crash-course in Harry Potter-based trivia – I know you better than what you might imagine. I would not have left this with anyone else, for despite our time actually together being brief, it was powerful, I am grateful to you, and moreover, I trust you. May every happiness find you, Harry Potter.’”

With that, the man pushes the envelope across the table, closer to Harry, indicating that he should open it.

The envelope goes untouched at first, because Harry’s frozen.

And Harry’s frozen, because all he can hear in his head, like a broken record, is Hermione throwing the paper down on the table, shouting that someone would come for Nacrissa and mean harm, begging Harry to help the woman that saved his life in the Forbidden Forest – he can hear Hermione warning him of the loss to come, and he remembers how he ran from it. How he insisted it wasn’t his problem – it wasn’t his job to do anymore saving, to care anymore, and he’d not taken Hermione seriously enough.

Someone tried to reason with him, someone tried to tell him this was bound to happen, someone he ought to have listened to, someone he trusts, and now it’s too late.

Why didn't he listen? What was he running from? How could he let this happen?

Narcissa Malfoy is dead, and Harry did nothing to prevent it.

He could have – he knows he could have – he could have done _something_ , _anything_ , really, but he did nothing. Nothing at all.

He feels ill.

“When – er – how did she die, exactly?” Harry asks hoarsely.

“In fashion with what she deserved, _I_ think.”

Harry’s eyes snap up disapprovingly to the Ministry worker’s, and the man at least has the decency to look bashful for a second. He clears his throat, and says instead, “she was reported missing a week ago – didn’t make the papers. Found dead three days ago – a rather gruesome murder. She was found in a shady part of Knockturn Alley - Aurors didn't allow reporters anywhere near the site, but the autopsy report didn't sound very forgiving. Burial is tomorrow – was supposed to be yesterday, but the youngest Malfoy had apparently refused to bury her during inclement weather.”

In his mind’s eye, Harry can see Malfoy in the rain, hollering, and making a scene about the weather, pointing his finger in the chests, and faces of people that would very much prefer to resign from their jobs than bury, or in any way honor an exonerated Death Eater, as it stands.

Malfoy probably only made matters worse, but hysterical, and angry in mourning, Malfoy probably turns into a hurricane of a person, and it doesn’t really surprise Harry that something as complicated to arrange as a burial was halted because Malfoy didn’t care to get his shoes wet.

Maybe Van Hoorn can see Harry’s thoughts crossing over his eyes, because he tells Harry, “said he didn’t want her ‘first night alone down there,’ to be during a storm. Just about fell apart, from what I heard. Sounds like the Zabini family saw to it that all of his requests and specifications were met. Tomorrow should be good weather ‘round there, so, it’s scheduled for the late afternoon. Big memorial service and all.”

Harry goes to ask if Lucius Malfoy will be there, but he doesn’t see why he would be – Lucius probably doesn’t even know what life or death is anymore, or that he’s anything at all. Maybe he doesn’t remember his wife, or son, and if he does remember them, they probably don’t mean anything to him.

Recalling seeing Neville’s parents for the first time in St. Mungo’s, Harry thinks it best that Lucius not be there. He doesn't want to see anymore soulless eyes, and he can't imagine it's been easy on Malfoy. He imagines Lucius must be at St. Mungo’s as well, actually – he’s no idea where victims of the Kiss go to once their souls have been taken. He doesn’t feel much like learning about it either.

“I need to confirm that you received, and opened the letter, Mr. Potter,” Van Hoorn tells him politely, “I’ll leave you to your thoughts once I know my job is complete.”

Nodding in understanding, Harry’s shaking arm outstretches to the table, and he drags the envelope to the edge of it with his fingertips. The envelope is dark, and elegant – quintessentially Malfoy material. He opens it only to find a single card inside.

It’s a parchment so small and thick, it might have been a business card. It's black as well, with silver ink showing up on it, and written neatly on it is the single phrase;

Van Hoorn watches Harry for some reaction, probably hoping Harry would tear it up, laugh cruelly, and throw it away, or otherwise cast all Death Eaters to the bowels of Hell, and then shake Van Hoorn’s hand, but all Harry does is stare.

He can hear her voice in his ear, asking if Malfoy’s still at the castle, if her son is alive, and he can hear that maternal voice clear as day now, ringing in his head.

Her last request, her greatest wish, and sole purpose.

_Protect him._

And she’s handed it down to Harry – entrusted Harry with her life’s dedication.

Malfoy is alone now; he has no parents to guide him or aid him, he has no siblings to rely or lean on, hardly has friends, he has countless enemies, and _no wand_.

Harry swallows roughly, and his chest feels too tight - he has failed Narcissa Malfoy, but he doesn't have to fail her son. He can do the right thing. 

It's not too late. It's not too late for Malfoy - he can do the right thing for Malfoy, he can respect Narcissa's last requests, and be the person he's needed to be. The person he should have been months ago, when Hermione first shouted at him that this was bound to happen.

He pockets the card, thanks Van Hoorn, and spends the rest of the evening in his room, asking for privacy.

Out of respect and concern, no one bothers him, and when he’s gone in the morning, it doesn’t seem that anyone goes looking for him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Death/Mentions of death and dying
> 
> This chapter is Narcissa's memorial/burial/funeral and it's sorta meant to upset the reader - not in any triggering way, but still, read carefully.
> 
> For Narcissa's song, follow the link that precedes the lyrics to it.
> 
> Narcissa's song is 'I Hope You Dance,' as performed by Gladys Knight

There are more people at Narcissa’s funeral than Harry expected, but he supposes he shouldn’t have just assumed that all pure blood families had collapsed with the end of the war. Seems comical to think of it like that now. Comical in a dark, and unrealistic way, that is.

He doesn’t just see blood purists, and ex-Death Eaters, though; he sees people he recognizes from school as well.

He sees Viola Richmond crying, and holding the hand of Tracey Davis, both their families trailing behind them – he sees Adelaide Mutton, and her family as well. The Greengrass family is there, as is the Harper family, the Accrington family, the Parkinson family, the Goyle family, the Evercreech family – he even spots Sebastian Daley standing with his father and brothers, and there are people there that Harry knows are families from different houses, or entirely different schools altogether.

He knows he sees some people from Durmstrang there - he vaguely recalls a few socializing with Malfoy during one of the feasts at Hogwarts during fifth year, but he hadn't realized that Malfoy had built such rapport with them. There's a handful of Beauxbaton students too - they still move like a flock of birds, though, so it's hard to tell who is family standing near each other, and who are just friends.

The place is so busy with people, and colors, despite being mostly monochrome, there’s more than that – so much more, which shouldn't make any sense.

Harry knows the funerals took a toll on him, but he tends to remember them all in greyscale. He's been convinced until now that it _had_ been all grey, it had been dreary, and unmistakably sad - that the entire world had stopped spinning, and gone bland, and dark when Remus and Tonks were buried. When Fred was buried. When Snape was buried. Everyone - everyone he lost, every funeral he went to, he could have sworn was drained of every drop of color, but Narcissa's memorial service is colorful, somehow. Despite everyone being in black and shades of grey, there's color all around.

There’s the basil and sage colors of the weeping willows surrounding the family plot, there's the wine dark shine of the cobble trail that weaves in and out of the cemetery, and the aegean blue of the sky, and white-to-grey mist of the light clouds overhead. The bark on the trees are a deep brown, off-white Narcissus flowers decorate all of the shining black coffin, along with ribbons of varying colors, lilies, and strings of pearls. Even the tombstone is a type of decorative marble, and the soil is loose and dark from the storm that had come down on them the day before.

Harry spots Andromeda there in the crowd, Teddy in her arms, and as he inches closer to the grave, taking stock of everyone from under his invisibility cloak, Harry sees Malcom Baddock.

He’s close enough to Malcom to hear him talking to Adrian Pucey, who is holding the hand of his younger sister.

Adrian Pucey asks how Malcom knew Narcissa, and he replies quietly, “I didn’t. I mean, I didn’t get to meet her. I only know Draco. My first year, I got sorted into Slytherin, and I hadn’t… I didn’t realize how Slytherins were treated, exactly, at Hogwarts. As I walked to the Slytherin table, the Weasley twins and a bunch of other Gryffindors _hissed_ at me… it was my first time away from home, and I didn’t know anyone. It was scary, and I didn’t get why they were trying to intimidate me… Draco saw it happen, and he started applauding me – he got the whole table to start cheering. He was always nice to me in the halls, and stuff too, never let anyone push me around – I never had classes with him, being an underclassman, but… I dunno. I feel sorry that he lost both his parents, and he stuck up for me when I was all alone, and he’s all alone now too, you know? Felt wrong not to attend, even though I didn't really know her.”

Shame makes Harry’s cheeks warm as he remembers that moment of bullying from the Gryffindor house – he hadn’t taken part in it, but he’d let it happen. He didn't see the harm in it then - it was just teasing, right? He'd thought it was normal, inter-house competitive teasing, but maybe that was just him excusing himself at the time.

He could’ve stopped it, he’s sure. He could have been the one to say to Malcom that Slytherin is a fine house to be sorted into, that he didn’t need to feel scared of Gryffindors, or anyone else for that matter.

He didn’t, though.

There are times Harry's immensely proud to be like his father, and other times he's not so sure he's learned enough from his father's mistakes.

Harry does recall the Slytherin table erupting into cheer for Malcom, though – he hadn’t realized it was Malfoy that started it.

“Sounds like him,” Adrian replies, “Malfoy’s personality type can be an acquired taste, and he can be defensive before anything calls for defensiveness, but he’s loyal, and proud – sharp as a tack too. I always liked him. I met his mother twice – kindest woman I ever met. Truly. She was a proud Slytherin too.”

Malcolm nods, smiling for a quiet moment that he shares a house with this ‘kind,’ woman, and her son, who clearly had a lasting effect on him, and then he goes back to following footsteps as the procession carries on; the procession comes to circle, and still around the open grave.

The hole seems deeper than six feet for some reason, and the coffin is levitating above its opening with perfect stillness.

It’s at the head of the coffin, right by a black podium, and makeshift stage holding up a band that Harry finally spots Malfoy.

If Harry thought Malfoy looked void and soulless at Dobby’s grave, he couldn’t describe what he sees now.

He’s known Malfoy for over seven years, and barely recognizes him where he stands.

The Zabini family is staying very close to Malfoy’s side, Blaise in particular is accepting a lot of condolences on Malfoy’s behalf so that Malfoy doesn’t have to speak, which he doesn’t even look to be physically capable of.

People walk by the coffin, adding flowers, pearls, notes, ribbons, rings, and offerings of their own; some people simply place their hands on the lid or side, whisper prayers, or thanks, or partings. It's a quiet, respectful affair.

From where Harry is watching, he can see Blaise leaning over and checking in on Malfoy every few beats. He can’t tell what exactly Blaise is asking, but Malfoy either nods or shakes his head in response, and Blaise’s expression remains entirely impassive and unreadable at each check-in. Blaise looks very goal-oriented, though; as if he’s on the look-out for anyone or anything that might upset Malfoy, and seeing to it that it doesn’t get near him.

Protecting Malfoy from any potential dangers is why Harry came in the first place, but he supposes he is glad to be there to pay his respects to Narcissa too, even if it’s in secret.

Still, he’s there more to make sure nothing happens to Malfoy. The funeral, Harry knew, would draw a lot of media attention – it would be a hot bed of exonerated war criminals, blood purists, and supremacists; an event practically begging for some vigilante to come running in and finish off the Malfoy blood line. Or attack any of the other families, deserving, or otherwise.

So, Harry only goes to protect Malfoy, at first. Then he thinks it’s good, too, that he’ll be there to say goodbye to Narcissa Malfoy.

He owes her more than he likely understands, and he at least knows that much.

When the circle of family and friends have settled to stillness around the open grave and floating casket, Blaise escorts a very reluctant Malfoy to the podium.

When, after a few deep breaths, Malfoy finally picks up his head, he looks wretched – withered, injured – like a bird with a broken wing. And just like an injured bird, it’s painful just to see him, and there’s an innate desire to fix what is so clearly horribly wrong, but also a knowing – that no one can fix the broken wing.

It looks like Malfoy is about to speak - he opens his mouth, but then he hesitates, shuts it, and shakes his head. He looks over his shoulder at Blaise pleadingly, as if to plead with Blaise that he not be made to do this – the mic on the podium is able to pick up how Blaise murmurs gently, “they want to hear from you, Draco. Say what you need to.”

All eyes fall onto Malfoy as he turns back around, and Blaise takes a few steps back, but doesn’t leave Malfoy’s personal space – not that Malfoy seems to notice. Harry thinks that Blaise and the Zabini family might be the original protection plan set in place by Narcissa. That, or Blaise Zabini cares more about Draco Malfoy than Harry knew Zabini was capable of caring for anything at all.

Malfoy attempts to clear his voice, but it cracks, and comes out rough, and scratchy anyway.

“I…” Malfoy trails off, making a wounded sort of ‘mm,’ sound, like his mouth is struggling to form words. He glances back at Zabini whose face is solemn, but who also nods encouragingly at him.

Looking out at the crowd and meeting the eyes of those around him is clearly too much to bear; Malfoy, instead, stares down at the podium, avoiding catching the intense stares of the people watching him, and maybe pretending they aren’t there, like he did with Harry at Dobby's grave.

Harry thinks, very sadly, that maybe pretending he's alone is the only way Malfoy knows how to express himself honestly. He has always been sensitive to harsh judgement - to any judgement at all, really. Maybe he has to pretend he's alone to let himself feel anything sincere.

There are a lot of people already crying, and Harry can’t tell if it’s because Malfoy is despair personified, or if seeing the last standing Malfoy is making the stinging loss of Narcissa all that much keener to those that cared for her. Maybe both. Probably both.

“I lost…” Malfoy says, gesturing awkwardly at the casket, “I lost. I’ve lost.”

He clears his throat, and hesitates again, no parchment in front of him of prepared words, and he wrings his hands, and _nothing_ about this is right – Malfoy is an elitist, he's eloquent, he's never been short on words, always has an obnoxious mouthful to say, and he’s a well-spoken man, even though he rarely says things worth saying. Harry’s never seen him like this, never knew Malfoy’s armor could be so thoroughly demolished, and leave in its wake this wobbling doe, shot in the leg or the side, and so hard to watch stumble around. It'd be embarrassing if Harry didn't entirely empathize.

Adrian’s little sister starts crying, asking if 'Draco is okay,' and when Adrian shakes his head to her, her bottom lip starts quivering, and then Harry sees Malcom reach out for her other, tiny hand, and squeeze it. Adrian notices the gesture, looks up, and Adrian and Malcom share a glance over Adrian’s sister’s head. It's warm, and familial.

Harry was always taught loyalty and family like that could only flourish in houses like Gryffindor, or Hufflepuff, or schools like Beauxbatons, but clearly, goodness can come in all forms, and houses, and schools, and he should’ve known that before the end of the war. He should have known that always, but he's been living in a world of Black and White until now, Good and Bad, and no in-betweens, and he supposes he just didn't let himself believe that people like Adrian Pucey and Malcom Baddock were adept at comforting each other and taking care of one another's kin, no matter the degree of relation. 

Goodness was supposed to be larger than life, it was supposed to be riding dragons out of Gringotts, and landing loud hexes on Death Eaters, and it was gold and red, or blue and grey, or yellow and black. 

And goodness can be all those things, Harry knows, but he knows now too that it can be entirely silent or wandless.

Sometimes all that goodness is loud and daring, like flying into the waves of cursed fire to save someone helpless – but sometimes it’s quiet and sly, like letting someone get away with your wand when you know you could've put up a better fight to keep it. Sometimes it's not a loud denial with grand gestures, but a soft, "I can't be sure," when you know precisely who you're looking at, and your life depends on you saying "yes, it's him." Sometimes goodness is silver and emerald, sometimes there's no dragons at all, sometimes there are no Death Eaters, or Good Guys, or Bad Guys - sometimes goodness is just a hand reaching out to take another’s.

Harry imagines being eleven again, then - he remembers the way Malfoy offered his hand to Harry – Malfoy had been an awful snob then, and there’s no reason to believe he’s changed, but still, Harry wonders what might be different now if he’d taken Malfoy’s hand then. Would he have found friendship in Malfoy like he did in Ron and Hermione? Would Malfoy have been his own sort of Severus Snape? A man on the inside, loyal to him, willing to risk life and limb, wand and wellness? Braving a life lived on a razor’s edge? Would Malfoy have made for a friendship like no other?

Harry can speculate, surely, but he supposes he’ll never really know.

“She’s – uhm, that… I couldn’t write,” Malfoy shrugs, laughing wetly, and brokenly, “I was supposed to write something for this, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t hold, uhm – I couldn’t hold a quill, still can't, I've got this tremor now in my hand, and I couldn’t… couldn’t say goodbye. And I have to, I know, I know I have to, but I couldn’t, and I can’t…”

There are faerie lights in the weeping willows that light up as the sun begins to set, and the smooth, still-wet cobblestones glisten and twinkle with the reflection. People are reaching for handkerchiefs, dabbing at their eyes and noses, hanging on his every stuttered word, but Malfoy doesn’t seem to notice any of it. He's still acting like he's alone.

Shaking his head, his brows pulling in, Malfoy continues, “how can I ever… she’s perfect, she’s so beautiful, and perfect, and I love her, and I’ll never talk to her again… that’s…”

Now people are crying in earnest, and Harry feels a hot lump in his throat, despite himself; Malfoy’s eyes are glassy, and tired, and he’s shaky, and he looks like he needs something hot to drink, and somewhere comfortable to lie down.

Harry is no Molly Weasley, but still, his blood rushes around with a frantic need to see that Malfoy get rest and food. He gets the feeling that a lot of the people around him are feeling the same helplessness.

“That’s my mum,” Malfoy tells them, gesturing at the casket again, glaring hopelessly at it, like it’s a hateful thing, a mockery, “That’s my _mum_ in there. My mum. She’s… she _was_ ,” Malfoy corrects himself, “ – she was warm, and graceful, and brilliant, and absolutely everything to me. If all there was left at the end of the entire world was she and me, that’d have been okay. She’s every book I ever read, she's every tea time conversation, she's every spell I ever cast, she’s – she _was_ – _was_ – she was… she _was_. She was my mum…”

Arms falling, shoulders shaking and body quivering like a dam about to burst, Malfoy touches his far arm with his left hand, gripping his own shoulder, crinkling the fine, black thread of his suit. He moves his right hand again through the air, another obscure, nonspecific gesticulation as he finishes unevenly, “she was my mum. So, I lost. I lost. I’ve lost my mum. I’ve lost.”

His chin falls to his chest, his shoulders round up by his ears while he trembles, and Blaise comes up from behind him, framing his forearms with gentle hands, as if keeping him upright, or maybe just keeping him put together. Malfoy just repeats softly, “I’ve lost, I’ve lost,” until Blaise sits him down, away from the podium.

There’s a long semi-silence where all there is to be heard is crying and sniffling, and Harry notices that Malfoy’s feet are turned in a little where he's sitting. It’s not the graceful, proper way he usually sits – it’s these little things that make Harry absolutely positive that Malfoy has been damaged beyond all hope of repair.

There's a hair of out place, a wrinkle in his suit jacket, his shoe is scuffed, or his tie might sit askew, and Malfoy doesn't have to collapse into tears for anyone to know he's suffering or broken.

Repairing him is not Harry’s purpose, though – he’s meant to protect Malfoy. He repeats that to himself inwardly as a mantra to keep from losing focus. And, possibly, to keep from analyzing his feelings too closely. He thinks it might be just as dangerous to think of people as Broken and Okay as it is to think of them as Good and Bad. There are shades of grey, and he needs to stop trying to save everyone. There are times that call for his bravery and his interference, but Malfoy's grief isn't one of them.

He can’t soothe Malfoy, he can’t heal Malfoy, and he can’t take Malfoy’s pain away from him – Harry can only protect Malfoy as he failed to protect Malfoy’s mother. He can redeem himself in this one way, he thinks, and no other.

People start moving toward the stage, and Mrs. Zabini stands at the center. She’s a woman with a lovely figure, dark skin, and dark eyes, and a likeness to Blaise Harry hadn’t noticed before.

“I was close to Narcissa for many years,” Mrs. Zabini begins, her voice carrying over the stage and crowd with her wand to her throat, augmenting it, “She had her arrangements in order for a long time, and as most everything she did in life, she arranged this song with me, for her son.”

Blaise is sitting next to Malfoy, a hand on his back as Malfoy looks up to Mrs. Zabini. She smiles gently at him and, with teary eyes, she says to him, “your mother loved you very much, Draco. I really do hope you know that. She wanted me to sing this for you, in the event of her passing – so, in her spirit and memory, this is for you, Draco.”

Malfoy and all the funeral-goers watch Mrs. Zabini back up on the stage – a small choir stands behind her, and to the side, the band starts playing. [Her voice is soulful and deep](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K-goFIdcF2g), more so than Harry expected it to be, and as the music swells into life and her voice starts to carry, she casts a silent spell that lights up the stage with what resembles a flurry of glittering light. They're small speckles of shine, like white gold raindrops, and they cast dramatic shadows on everyone and everything there.

 

“ _Oh, oh…_

_I hope you never lose your sense of wonder…_

_You get your fill to eat, but always keep that hunger._

_May you never take one single breath for granted._

_God forbid love ever leave you empty-handed…_

_I hope you still feel small, standing by the ocean…_

_Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens._

_Promise me, you'll give faith a fighting chance…_

_And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance…_  
  
_I hope you dance.._.”

 

“ _Dance_ ,” the choir sings behind her.

 

“ _I hope you dance_.”

 

“ _Dance_ …”

  
  
“ _I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance._

_And never settle for the path of least resistance…_

_Livin' might mean takin' chances, but they're worth taking._

_Lovin' might be a mistake, but it's worth the making_.”

 

Mrs. Zabini looks directly at Malfoy, like she’s talking to him privately – like Narcissa is talking to him, and he needs to listen.

With the way Malfoy looks at her, Harry thinks Malfoy hears every word – spoken and unspoken.

 

“ _Don't let some Hell-bent heart leave you bitter,_

 _When you come close to sellin' out – reconsider_.”

 

She looks up, and spreads her arms, her palms reaching toward the sky;

 

“ _Give the Heavens above more than just a passing glance…_

_And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance…_

_I hope you dance_....”

 

The choir sings against Mrs. Zabini, all the voices overlapping, “ _time is a wheel in constant motion, always rolling us along_.”

 

“ _Oh – oh, I hope you dance_.”

 

“ _Always rolling us along…”_

 

“ _Moving us along_ –“

 

“ _Tell me who wants to look back on their years and wonder where those years have gone_ …”

 

She steadies a hand over her heart as it goes quiet behind her, and she sings again,

 

“ _I hope you still feel small, standing by the ocean,_

_Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens,_

_Promise me that you'll give faith a fighting chance,_

_And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance_ …”

 

“ _Dance_ …” the choir crescendos.

 

“ ** _I hope you dance_**!”

 

The casket begins to descend into the grave, and Malfoy scrambles to stand up again to watch it lower, Blaise behind him with hands ready to steady him.

Blaise’s mother watches the boys, and the choir and her overlap again, tears in her eyes as she watches Malfoy’s expression turn to something inconsolable.

 

“ _Oh, I hope you dance_ …”

 

“ _Dance_ …”

 

“ _I hope you dance_.”

 

“ _Dance_ …”

 

“ _Oh, I hope you dance_...”

 

“ _Dance_ …”

 

“ _I wanna tell you, time_ …”

 

The casket is shrouded with shadow and still, the choir sings, “ _time is a wheel in constant motion_...”

 

“ _Oh, moving us along_ …”

 

“ _Always rolling us along_ …”

 

“ _Moving us along_ ,”

 

“ _Tell me who_ –"

 

“ _Tell me, tell me, tell me who_ –"

 

“ _who wants to look back and wonder_ –"

 

“ – _wants to look back on their years and wonder – where those years have gone_?”

 

“ _Where the years have gone? Come on – time, time_ …”

 

“ _Time is a wheel in constant motion, always rolling us along_ …”

 

“ _Oh, where they have gone_ …”

 

“ _Tell me, who wants to look back on their years and wonder – where those years have gone_?”

 

“ _Where the years, where the years have gone_ …”

 

The choir quiets down again as the casket reaches the floor of the grave, and Blaise’s grip on Malfoy’s arm starts to look painful, like he might be keeping Malfoy from jumping in with her.

The faerie lights flicker, the glitter fades out, the sky gets darker and darker against the pale of Malfoy’s face, and the glow of the lights in the trees, and soon all one can see from around the circle surrounding Narcissa's open grave is the shine of ribbons, and twinkle of pearls where light still touches them.

Malfoy is a spirit of white in a dark world – no one by him that looks anything like him anymore.

The Malfoy Family is reduced to him, now.

No longer an endangered species.

Just the last of his kind.

 

“ _I hope you dance…_

_Where the years have gone…_

_Dance… oh, don’t let it slip away…_

_Oh…_

_Just dance._

_Reach out – touch… if you want it so much…_

_To dance_ …”

 

People Conjure flowers, and toss them into the grave to lie with Narcissa, someone releases Conjured doves, and others simply hold their wands up with light, and while Mrs. Zabini has finished what Narcissa asked of her, she doesn’t look satisfied. She walks off the stage as the band still plays something soft and sad, and she pets back Malfoy’s hair, asking him something Harry can’t hear.

Malfoy may not have heard her either, because he only stares down the hole of the grave, desolate, and maybe shell-shocked.

Mrs. Zabini looks to Blaise, tells him something else inaudible, and it takes some effort, but Blaise is able to guide Malfoy away from the burial site.

Blaise guides him to the cobblestone path where Malfoy is bombarded with flowers, cards, foods, and drinks, and he nods, and thanks everyone occasionally, but Blaise does most of the talking for him. No one seems to consider it rude – in fact, most people have a hard time meeting Malfoy’s eyes, and seem relieved when he can’t reply with anything useful.

It’s another procession line in and of itself – a parade of well-wishers, all crying or teary-eyed, or just terribly sorry-looking, and they vary in age, number, house, school – Harry’s so distracted with waiting for someone to take out their wand and try to attack Malfoy that he doesn’t notice a most remarkable guest until she’s speaking.

Calmly and sweetly as ever, Luna Lovegood takes Malfoy’s hands in hers when she approaches, and he looks at her with wide, frightened eyes. She tilts her head at him, giving him a placating smile, and her father stands beside and behind her, nodding his head at Malfoy in acknowledgement and respect.

“What are you doing here?” Malfoy rasps, but not unkindly.

“You were very generous to me during a time that was short on generosity, Draco – your mother was too. You all did what you needed to during a terrible time, but I saw how powerless you were. Even with eyes everywhere, you made efforts to help keep my clothes clean, my stomach full, and my spirit unharmed, and I’ve not forgotten that you brought me my food and blankets. I can’t imagine anyone ordered you to do those things. I’m sorry for your loss, Draco. I sincerely am.”

Blaise is watching Malfoy for some signal – some idea of what he should do – but Malfoy is just staring down at his hands encased in Luna’s, looking bewildered and breathless. He shakes his head, brow furrowed, and replies, “you shouldn’t be. You should hate me. You should hate me for everything we did and were –"

“I don’t, though,” Luna intercepts politely, petting her thumbs back and forth over Malfoy’s hands, “I feel sorry for you. Harry Potter had an army to help him, and you had your mother. You probably feel unsafe now that she’s gone, and you must feel so alone – I know you won’t, but if you’d like to, you can write to me.”

No one says anything for a few beats, and so Luna asks, “hatred is draining, isn’t it?”

Malfoy gazes into her eyes, and his expression softens, his eyes turn Tired in that special, eternal way, and Luna nods, as if Malfoy has agreed with her without saying anything.

“I’d much prefer to expend my energy on being friends now, if you don’t mind,” she adds, “If you don’t want to be my friend, that’s okay too – but I’m your friend, Draco Malfoy, if you ever need one.”

Daring and eccentric as ever, Luna moves forward and captures Malfoy in a hug that he looks ill-equipped to escape, or otherwise handle. In fact, with the way his arms move, and how his expression plays across his face, Harry might have thought Malfoy doesn’t know what a hug is, or how to reciprocate it.

Predictably, Luna doesn’t mind.

“I had terrible night terrors when my mother died, so I thought to make you a Sleeping Draught," she explains as she pulls away, "I hope it helps you in the nights to come, Draco. My father and I will be keeping you in our thoughts.”

She hands him a vial of dark purple Sleeping Draught, and as she turns to walk away, it seems as though Malfoy has a very sudden, shuddering panic attack. In a rush, Blaise pulls him far from the cobble trail, and Mrs. Zabini covers for him, keeping pitying eyes from Malfoy's retreating form. Harry follows the two of them, and stills a few feet behind them on a grassy hill, far off from the sound of wet footfalls, and the brushing of black fabrics.

Harry looks up to see a powerful silhouette of Malfoy; his back is turned to Harry, his hip is cocked to the side, and he’s holding his forehead in his left hand, half-covering his face with his head tilted down. His other hand has the bottleneck between his ring and middle fingers, and the palm of it is planted on his waist-side.

With the sharp angles of his figure cutting through the shining of the faerie lights and moon beams only just blanketing the cemetery, Malfoy could be a painting. He’s so still, he might not be a person at all anymore, but just be a portrait of devastation.

Blaise walks over to stand by Malfoy’s left side, solid and sure as a stone, and with his hands in his pockets, he shifts on his feet, and asks, “you think she’d poison you?”

“No,” Malfoy answers, shaking his head.

“Then what happened?”

After a deep intake, Malfoy tells him, “she hugged me.”

As he already knows that because he saw it firsthand, Blaise looks to Malfoy for further extrapolation, but Malfoy doesn’t turn his head to meet Blaise’s stare. His shoulders just get higher by his ears and his short, groomed nails scrape against the glass of Luna’s Draught.

“It’s not – not the same,” Malfoy stutters, shrugging, and gripping his fringe harshly with the hand that had been holding his forehead, “The way my mother held me – I’ll never have it again. There’s a way a mother holds her child, you know how I mean? A way that makes it seem like the worst is behind you, like nothing can touch you, because she’s near, like someone exists just to love you, and protect you, and truly has your best interests at heart... and they took that from me. I’ll never have it again, Blaise. It was taken from me, and… it wasn’t something I considered before. It wasn’t something I knew to… expect to hurt this much.”

They stand in companionable silence for a while, and then, cautiously, Blaise takes his right hand out of his pant pocket, and presses it against Malfoy’s far shoulder. The invitation is clear and, to Harry's surprise, Malfoy takes it, looking too weak and exhausted to refuse it. His pride is gone, his public persona all broken apart, a big void of a person left in its wake, and he turns into Blaise, his face leaning into the crook of Blaise’s neck.

Blaise’s arm tightens around Malfoy, and he doesn’t say another word – it appears to be he and Malfoy’s way of communicating - in silence. Blaise is stoic, but he exudes patience, empathy, and protection.

Malfoy is… something else. Someone else. Or becoming something or someone else. Whatever it is he has become or is becoming, it's compatible with Blaise's aloof, quiet, and cool personality.

They take fifteen or twenty minutes like that together, just breathing, and then Blaise breaks to Malfoy, very gently, “come on, mate. See off the rest of her family, and friends, and we’ll get you back to your aunt’s house, alright?”

 _Andromeda?_   Harry wonders to himself – it makes sense, though – Malfoy isn’t eighteen yet, and Andromeda is probably his next of kin.

He'd not thought of that yet - he wonders what's to become of Malfoy Manor, and he worries over Malfoy's presence with Teddy. He can't imagine Malfoy being good with small children, but maybe, considering how he treated Malcom, Harry could be wrong. Maybe Malfoy could be good with Teddy. He'd prefer not to risk it, but he doesn't think he has much a say in the matter.

“Right. Yes,” Malfoy agrees, clearing his throat, and standing up straighter.

He brushes down the lapels of his suit jacket, and combs his hair out of his face with his shaking hand. He looks at Blaise for appraisal, and Blaise nods to him, approving, and then he begins to lead the way back down the hill.

“Is the baby annoying?” Blaise inquires as they pass by Harry, oblivious to his eavesdropping.

“No, not really – temperament’s nice. Doesn’t cry, or scream much. He's starting to babble, which is pretty funny - I've been speaking French around him; I'm hoping he'll pick up on it early. I've read that the best way to raise a multi-lingual child is for one parent to speak one language, and the other parent to strictly speak the other. So, Andromeda only speaks English around Teddy, and I only speak French. I think he'll catch on fast - he's already pretty academically inclined, you know - he likes that I read to him. When I do, he does that thing - you know how I like it when he makes his hair look like mine. You should meet him soon.”

“If you want me to.”

“Yeah,” Malfoy responds simply, sniffing, and keeping his head up and forward, “I’d like you to.”

“Then I will.”

That seems to be all that needs saying between the two; Malfoy pockets Luna’s potion, he and Blaise return to seeing everyone off, and accept condolences, handshakes, personal anecdotes and gifts, and Harry stays until the sun is rising, and Malfoy is parting ways with the Zabini's to Disparate with Andromeda and Teddy.

Teddy's hair is a dark blue when Harry sees it, and he's fast asleep by then as well.

After Teddy, Andromeda, Malfoy, and the Zabini's leave, he stands alone in the cemetery for a long few minutes, exhausted, and… changed.

When he returns to The Burrow, it’s quiet with sleep, and he lies awake on the couch alone, staring up at the ceiling, and wondering if Malfoy, too, is lying awake somewhere, staring up at a borrowed roof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That bit about Malcom being hissed at by the Weasley twins and Gryffindor table, but cheered on by Malfoy is canon and I can site it if anyone wants to know the page/book.
> 
> Malfoy also has a Muggle mic on the podium because he doesn't have his wand to augment his voice and odds are he wouldn't ask for help like that from anyone else. 
> 
> Also, Luna Lovegood is a Patron Saint.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Symptoms of PTSD and emotional-blackmailing
> 
> So, you know how Harry's been bottling up all his unpleasant emotions up until now? Well, the dam's about to burst, and it is Not Cute. Harry doesn't mean to be abusive in any way, he is not intentionally malicious in this chapter, but his behaviors are toxic, and could be construed as guilt-tripping, or emotional blackmail. Really, he's just a torrent of emotion with little other direction to go in, and I promise - this upcoming chapter, things will lighten up and get easier. We just gotta get through some of the tough, unpleasant shit first :T I hope you guys hang on through it!

“What a terrible business,” Molly tsk’s, handling _The Prophet_ , “Such a terrible business. They should’ve had that family under watch. Shouldn’t they have, Arthur?”

Arthur nods dutifully (but seems distracted), and Percy does as well, but George, and Ginny seem unimpressed, and unconvinced. There’s little pity for the Malfoy family to be found at The Burrow.

Without making a noise, and while taking no sides on the issue of Narcissa’s murder investigation, Harry focuses on writing his letter to Andromeda, and keeps his head down.

There’s nothing but trouble to be had, engaging about the Malfoy’s when Ron, Ginny, or George are around. He wasn’t able to tell Ron or Hermione where he had been, the evening he spent at Narcissa’s memorial service – he’s not sure he’d know how to explain it (even if he thought they'd want to hear about it), and he gets the feeling that Ron would feel irrationally betrayed by his attendance if he were to find out about it.

Harry just doesn’t have the energy to share the memories, even though he’s really guiltless, and he still feels like it was the right thing to do. Still feels like asking for a good deal of trouble, sharing. He’s exhausted before he’s done a thing at all - just _thinking_ about sharing, and he's worn out.

“An orphan factory this war has been, and a bloody inhumane one at that,” Molly adds.

Harry doesn’t look to her, and while Hermione or Percy will occasionally mumble something back, or nod in justification, or shake a head in agreed dismay, the house is quiet. In fact, it’s quiet for most of fall, into winter.

Luna drops by near Halloween, wearing what appears to Harry as Valentine’s day garb, but he just decides not to comment – she stays for a night, catching up with the trio, and talking about her recent travels with her father. Most of the places she claims to have travel to sound entirely made up, and most of the attractions she swears to have loved sound improbable at best, but Harry learned early on that Luna Lovegood is to be trusted on these matters. No matter how bizarre.

Her father is doing better these days, apparently. Still twitchy, a touch paranoid, and highly protective of her, but they’re healing, and she seems happy. It’s all Harry could really hope for, for her – he’s pleased on her account.

While up late at night, snacking beyond comfortable fullness, Ginny asks if Luna’s heard a word from Neville, because she’s not had so much as a peep, and she's almost offended.

It’s at that, that Luna leans across the table for a cookie, and announces rather casually, “no, I think he’s had a harder time of healing since the end of the war than some of us. He needs time to himself, I think. When I last heard from him, there was something very troubled about his commas. So, I haven’t heard from Neville recently, unfortunately. Draco’s been writing, though, and that’s been nice.”

Choking on word-impact, Harry struggles long enough for breath to ask, “ _Malfoy_? _Draco Malfoy_ has been writing to you?”

“Yes,” Luna smiles placidly – ignoring, or completely oblivious to Ginny and Ron’s hard glares, “I invited him to. After his mother’s death, I thought it would be a good time to extend an olive branch, you know? He’s a decent fellow at the bottom of it all. I always thought he belonged in Ravenclaw, to be honest. He’s a very eloquent person with impeccable handwriting – I very much look forward to his letters. He writes me weekly.”

“No offense, Luna, but have you gone _absolutely barmy_?” Ron urges – he gets elbowed in the ribs by Hermione for it, but he seems earnest, “I mean – _Malfoy_? We’re talking about the same one, right? Tall, blonde, a superiority complex a mile wide? The bloke that locked you up in his basement, and all? The Death Eater one?”

“Draco wasn't the one to lock me up in the Manor, and I don’t think he was ever a Death Eater,” Luna shares, fixing at the hem of her pink, frilly dress – Harry finds it interesting the way Hermione blushes at Luna’s admission, because he distinctly recalls Hermione saying precisely the same thing when Harry once accused Malfoy of being a Death Eater.

Perhaps, now that time has passed, Hermione would take comfort in believing Malfoy to be an unforgivable, loveless creature of evil, rather than the grey scale of human folly and flaw that all of them are. It’s what everyone seems wont to do lately – it’s either black or white, it’s life or death, it’s war or peace, it’s wrong or right, and nothing in between.

Harry doesn’t like it, and he gets particularly irritated seeing the hesitation in Hermione – he holds her in too high a regard for her to fall into that line of thinking, that simple way of seeing things. But she’s human like everyone else, and maybe all that has changed. Maybe _she’s_ changed.

“Harry saw it,” Hermione pipes up, just as Harry is gearing up to ask her if her opinion has since changed, and why, “Sixth year – at Borgin and Burkes. Malfoy flashed his Dark Mark, and threatened Borgin.”

“No, Hermione,” Harry corrects, drawing her attention quickly, “I never… actually _saw_ it. You talked to me about this, don’t you remember? I saw him pull up his sleeve, but I didn’t actually see what was there. You told me back then that you didn’t think he was a Death Eater.”

“Well, what else could he have been showing Borgin?” Hermione asks rhetorically, her voice going up in an octave that usually indicates the line of questioning is taking a dangerous turn.

Luna saves Harry from answering when she intercepts, “sixth year, you say?”

Everyone nods, and Luna looks away thoughtfully, “he was very sickly that whole year. Didn’t you notice? He was so pale, and tired all the time. Reminded me of Professor Lupin.”

The room just about turns upside down.

Harry feels that insinuation hit him in the _solar plexus_ and he wants to double over from the blow of it – he remembers, looking into Borgin and Burkes, how petrified Borgin was when he saw the Mark – or whatever it was on Malfoy’s arm – and how Malfoy mentioned that Fenrir Greyback was a ‘personal friend of his,’ and how he’d ‘hate,’ for Fenrir to ‘have to pay a visit.’

Why would Malfoy just mention Greyback like that without any prompting? Why wouldn’t he name someone like Bellatrix, or even his father – someone higher on the totem pole of power, or closer in relation? The whole exchange suddenly doesn’t make sense anymore.

When Harry first learned of Fenrir Greyback, it was to the knowledge that he was well known for condemning followers of Voldemort who had failed him, and punishing them by biting their children. Harry remembers that Lupin _was_ one of those children.

_Could Malfoy…?_

“I’ve seen him multiple times, and not once have I ever seen the Dark Mark on him,” Luna continues, “He’s gone out of his way in the past to announce that he’s a Death Eater, but that wouldn’t be very Slytherin-like of him, now would it? They’re the devious, secretive type – if something that important, ceremonially speaking, had happened, I doubt he’d share it with the world. It might have been a diversion from what he had actually become. He just doesn’t seem the type either, to honestly surrender to Voldemort. He’s made errors in judgment before, but not of the homicidal, or psychotic variety.”

Harry can remember how Malfoy’s arm shook the night Snape killed Dumbledore, how his wand was outstretched at Dumbledore, but he couldn’t cast it – he couldn’t cast the killing curse at his headmaster. He couldn’t do a _thing_ – and Harry remembers, too, that there was a barrier to the Astronomy Tower that night that one could only pass through if they had a Dark Mark.

And, if he does, in fact, remember that night correctly – and Harry swears, he’ll never be able to forget it as much as he’d like to – the barrier was cast up immediately _after_ Malfoy got up to the tower, and it came down just _before_ he left the tower.

None of the group there that night treated him like a Death Eater, either. No one spoke to him like he was _one_ of them.

Maybe he never was.

Maybe it was all coincidence, though?

That doesn’t feel true or right, either, though. Nothing in his life has ever been so simple as a coincidence.

“If you don’t think he was a Death Eater, what _do_ you think he was doing during the war?” Ron inquires.

“Surviving,” Luna answers simply, shrugging, “Like we all did. We all did things we’re not proud of, but we all did it out of love, and a desire to survive. I think Draco was doing just the best he could with the tools he had at the time. It must be hard to build bridges when all you’ve got in your tool kit is an axe. In any case, I have my own ideas about him.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asks, interest piqued.

“I think you know what I mean.”

“Luna,” Harry interrupts, head spinning, “Greyback was well known for… _biting_ the children of Death Eaters that failed Voldemort. If you’re implying what I think you’re implying… why would Malfoy’s parents be punished? And why would the punishment have been as… _severe_ as him being tossed to Greyback?”

Heads all swivel to Luna, and the air gets thick with tension.

“The prophecy, of course,” Luna replies evenly, entirely nonplussed, “Don’t you remember? The end of fifth year – Lucius failed to get the prophecy. Not only that, but he’d forced Voldemort’s hand, and inadvertently exposed him, which Voldemort didn’t want. He had wanted his resurrection to remain in question, as a tool of psychological warfare, and Lucius had exposed him by failing to get the prophecy. That, and he got himself and a great deal of other Death Eaters sent to Azkaban that night. There may have been many reasons to punish Lucius, but if I had to take a guess, I’d guess that Greyback was set upon Draco during the summer going into sixth year because of the failure to obtain the prophecy.”

They all stare blankly for a few beats until Ginny asks outright, “you think Malfoy is a werewolf?”

“Well, it's not a totally outlandish idea, is it? And, he did spend an awful lot of time with Professor Snape in sixth year,” Luna adds thoughtfully, “Maybe Draco was getting Wolfsbane potion from him?”

“Merlin…” Ron mumbles to himself.

Sighing, and lying her weight back on the couch cushions, Luna mentions, “I often think Draco was as much a prisoner of Malfoy Mansion as I was.”

“Oh, that’s rubbish,” Ginny scowls, crossing her arms over her chest, “If he were such a _prisoner_ of the Manor, why wouldn’t he have just defected?”

“Well, Harry never would have believed him – no one would have,” Luna rationalizes, gesticulating toward Harry, “Harry probably would have thought it was another trick, and a poorly disguised one at that. I mean – just imagine, the war in full swing, and Draco Malfoy walking up to any one of you at Hogwarts, and asking for protection? It would have been humiliating for him, and more over, it would have probably unsuccessful. Everyone would have thought he was a spy. So, if he _had_ run away, he’d have lost the only protection he had left, which was his mother, and the D.A would’ve turned him away on-sight. He’d have been out there on his own, with a big target on his back. I don’t blame him for staying put. It was his only chance at survival.”

“ _Rubbish_ ,” Ginny repeats, standing up, “Absolute _rubbish_. I don’t believe a word of it. I think Malfoy is spectacular at making people feel sorry for him, and he’s just a self-pitying arse that's pulled the wool over your eyes like he’s done to countless people before.”

“I don’t know about that,” Luna defends sweetly, “He, himself, protected me from Greyback while I was there. That man took an interest in me – not the friendly type. Draco would make visits to the cellar often to check on me, and I heard him put wards up once – keeping anyone with ill-intention away. I think he really was stuck there, and I think he really does value the lives of others. Maybe he’s not very good at showing it, but I do think his spirit is of a good nature. I'm good at telling those sorts of things.”

“Fine! Whatever! It doesn’t matter!” Ginny decides, eyes getting glassy, and stance getting defensive, “Who cares if Malfoy got bit by some dog for being a loud bigot? Fred is _gone_ – Malfoy doesn’t _matter_!”

Entirely on impulse, and with blood rushing through his head so loud he could hardly hear anything over it, Harry stands to match Ginny’s height, and orders, “don’t say things like that! Malfoy didn’t kill Fred, Ginny –"

“He may as well have!” she argues, throwing her arms out, “They’re all the same under those black cloaks – all the same dangerously ignorant, prideful –"

“So, you don’t care?” Harry challenges, his voice rising, and anger sprouting up quickly, “You don’t care that _Lucius_ Malfoy failed to do something, and so Voldemort ordered a homicidal maniac to give a sixteen year-old _kid_ a curse that can never be lifted? You don’t care about that injustice?”

“ _Why should I_!?” Ginny begs, desperately, as if Harry is the one not making any sense, “Who _cares_ what happens to him!? He was awful, he always _has_ been – they’re born that way, you know – psychopaths!”

Just by the way her jaw twitches, Harry can tell Hermione wants to pipe up, and reiterate the differences between psychopathy, sociopathy, and behavioral disorders, and probably rant again about nature and nurture both playing a role, but Harry doesn’t give her time or space to speak.

He’s been quiet for months now, listening to witness testimonies, reading loathsome articles in _The Daily Prophet_ , hearing radio hosts bicker about who deserves to live, and die, and it’s been building up – all these words, and all this rage, and maybe it’s misdirected, maybe he’s wrong, and can’t see it, but all he knows to do is fight back.

The argument could likely be made that fighting is all he's ever known to do.

“Draco Malfoy is a lot of things, but he’s not a _psychopath_ ,” Harry snaps, “He couldn’t kill Dumbledore even though the lives of his entire family were on the line, he protected Luna even if that put him in danger, he _lied_ to a room full of _Death Eaters_ to buy me, Hermione, and Ron more time to get away - the time he bought us is what _saved our lives_ \- he surrendered his wand to me when he knew he could’ve gripped it harder –"

“Oh, yes, what a gentleman!” Ginny congratulates sarcastically, “And he nearly _killed you all_ trying to get it back!”

“ _When_ will you _stop_!?”

The room gets quiet, and it’s only then that Harry realizes how loud he’d been getting.

His breaths are shallow, and he keeps imagining the way Malfoy’s feet turned inward when he sat near the stage at his mother’s burial, how he looked like he might faint when Luna hugged him, how pale he was against the lilies he brought for Dobby.

He remembers the void of Malfoy's eyes, how cosmic and how minuscule he seemed - how he blamed Harry, because Harry was everything, and nothing to him, and still is, and maybe always had been.

He thinks of it all, and he’s a wildfire ready to blaze.

“ _When_ will you stop being so bloody _hateful_? When will it _end_?” Harry asks, his voice strong, but ripped from him, “We all hurt people – we all did things we wish we could take back, we all contributed to the war, to the violence, we all failed, we all fell short somewhere, and if you’re going to put Fred’s death on Malfoy’s shoulders, his death is on mine too!”

“Mate,” Ron begins dangerously, standing in a way to be a buffer between Harry and his sister, “Be careful what you say right now.”

Too incited to heed what is probably a very respectful warning, Harry glances at Ron, and redirects his questioning, “you too? You think that apathy is the answer? You don’t care about his mother, do you?”

No one says anything, and Harry feels like ripping out his hair, like he’s running in circles.

“I was just a much a part of that war as Draco Malfoy was, and he didn’t fire anything at Fred, but if he’s being held accountable for the war that killed Fred, then I better be held just as accountable.”

“That’s not –"

“No, it _is_ ,” Harry blocks, scowling at Ginny, but he can tell she cools down looking at him – he can feel his eyes watering, and he’s embarrassed, but he’s too angry to dwell on it, “It _is_. It’s what you mean. You’re all so uncomfortable with this – this cognitive dissonance – but that’s how people live. In shades of grey. And none of you are willing to _admit that_ , and I'm _living in it_ , and I'm living in it _alone_ , and it's making me feel like _I've lost my mind_!”

Gesturing between Ginny and Ron, Harry continues, “he just lost both his parents in less than a year, and none of you care. No, it’s tragic when it’s Hermione, it’s a travesty when Hermione can’t have her parents back – empathy and sympathy abound, the way it _should_ be when someone suffers a loss like that – you all care the way you _should_ care when someone loses the people they love, but only if it’s someone you can understand better. But, because Malfoy made gross mistakes, because he failed, he’s not worth caring about as a person anymore? And you’re all okay with being people that do that? That dole out humane regard like candy to only the good kids?”

Still, no one speaks.

Harry wonders if Malfoy could hear him now, what he’d think. Harry wonders if he’d be grateful that someone was speaking on his behalf, or if he’d be bothered that he was being spoken of at such length without a chance to represent himself, or possibly bothered that he was being spoken of at all.

Harry wonders if Malfoy would have stormed out of the room at such insults, or stepped closer to Harry's defense.

“What if I had made mistakes?” Harry asks, his eyes roving around to all the faces avoiding his stare, “Me being an orphan – would it have bothered you, or would it have mattered then - if I’d been raised up to be just like the Dursely’s? If I’d been just like Dudley, walking into Hogwarts, would anyone have given a damn seven years later when I’d lost everything, and everyone? Does the value of my life hinge entirely on the worst mistakes I ever made?”

“I’d have cared.”

Harry looks at Luna, and a tear escapes his right eye, and his voice gets crackly when he shows his palm to her, and proclaims, “yes. Yes, you would have, Luna. I know you would have, because your love is entirely unconditional, and that’s… rare. Rarer than I thought, anyway.”

Staring down at his shoes, and cracking his knuckles one at a time, Harry finishes slowly, “I’m going to shut up, and go to bed once I say this, and you can all make of it what you will. I swear, I’ve just got this left to say, and then I’ll go back to being whatever everyone wants me to be.”

Hermione clearly wants to object to that idea, but Harry doesn’t give her an opening.

“I _viciously_ attacked Malfoy during sixth year,” Harry confesses, “I used a curse – I had no way of knowing what it would do, and I didn’t care if he was a guinea pig for that experiment. I didn’t _care_ about him, because he was just a face attached to a dangerous, hateful idea. He wasn’t a _person_ to me. So, I cursed him without caring about what it might do. Then he was bleeding out on the floor – there was so much _blood_ , so _much_ and _I’d_ done that…”

Harry shakes his head, rubbing a hand down the side of his face, “none of you will ever see what I saw, you can’t understand what it was like, he was… one moment, he was this thing, this – nebulous sort of… nothing. Then he was a person. Just – in an instant, he transformed from a Nothing into a person. He was crying, and _screaming_ in pain, and these _slices_ were carving into his skin, _deep_ , down to the bone, down to _organs_ , and he just writhed, and _screamed_ , and I couldn’t _do_ anything, because I hadn’t assigned his life as much value as mine, because I just weighed the whole world on this completely meaningless scale of black and white, good and bad, and never considered that he was my age, just as complicated, just as lost, just as in need, just as scared, just as worthy of being given a chance to live…”

The fireplace glows across Harry’s skin, keeping him warm from the memory of the cold bathroom, but he can still see it all, clear as day in his mind’s eye.

“He wasn’t a Death Eater when he was writhing on the floor. He was just… he was a _kid_. Like _me_. And he was _petrified_ , and I’d _hurt_ him so _violently_ , and there was all this _blood_ everywhere – _human_ blood, like mine. We were both kids… just kids. What I did to Malfoy in that bathroom that night – that’s probably the _worst_ thing I _ever_ did – cast that curse on Malfoy. Watch him seethe, and wail in agony like that, just useless, useless because I didn’t appreciate that he was a person worth caring about like any other...”

"Harry..." Hermione tries - she doesn't seem to know how to follow that up, though.

Harry continues without having heard her, anyway.

“I was watching him _die_ , all because I thought I was… better? I thought he wasn’t worth worrying about, obviously. I’d try a new hex on him – who cared what it did, right? It was just Malfoy. That’s the problem, though. Malfoy was just Malfoy – a kid. A person. Trying to survive, and you know what? No one is going to remember that about me.”

Everyone’s looking at him now, expressions all different and telling, but he carries on. He carries on despite Ron’s fear bordering on anger, despite Ginny’s apparent and sort of ghostly disappointment, despite Hermione’s teary eyes, and Luna’s shimmering ones.

Despite Malfoy's void ones.

He carries on despite the way his hands shake, and his throat clicks.

“No one is going to remember me for the worst thing I ever did. That’s not my legacy. No one will remember me, and think of that night in the bathroom – but Malfoy? No one is going to remember him, and think of how he looked me in the eye at Malfoy Manor, and lied to the most dangerous people in the world, knowing the truth. He knew he was risking his life to save mine, and to save Hermione’s, and to save Ron’s, and no one – _no one_ will remember him for that. They’ll just remember him for the biggest mistake he ever made. And you know what? I think that’s shite.”

He nods, laughs bitterly, and says, “yeah. That’s complete and utter – he deserves a lot, but he and I are not so different, and I'm sick of everyone acting like we're different species, or something. We grew up on different sides of the same coin – so if Fred’s death is his fault, it’s mine too. And if Malfoy deserves to be an orphan, then I do too. And if Malfoy is only ever worth the worst mistakes he ever made, then I don’t want anyone of you ever telling another story about me that doesn’t end with Malfoy sobbing on the ground, screaming, and cut up to pieces, by my hand.”

He looks at Ginny again, and professes, “I didn’t fight for this. I didn’t fight for you all to stay angry, and bitter, and to keep thinking the world is made up of Good Guys and Bad Guys and to sit around, full of hatred for an orphan of the war. Frankly, I didn’t _die_ for that either. I didn’t fight this war, or die in the forest that night for the people I love and care about to turn around, and shrug at the thought of another kid’s mother being murdered, while his father’s soul is stolen, and lost. That’s not the world I fought for. It’s not the sort of world I want to live in, either.”

He hangs his head, and finishes, “it took so much bloodshed for me to learn that. It took so much darkness, and suffering, and pain, and loss, for me to just get that we’re all fragile, we were all just kids, and humans, and that there’s light in us all. There’s light in us all, and it’s worth fighting for, it’s worth dying for – for even the hope of it. Humanity is worth it. But all this loathing? That’s not humanity. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not what I wanted for any of you. Any of you.”

With that, Harry inhales deeply into his diaphragm, then exhales out slowly, stepping away from his circle of friends.

No one so much as breathes.

 _That’s been building up for a while_ , Harry thinks to himself.

“I won’t stay here tonight. I think I’ve probably… overstepped. Probably said too much. But I couldn’t go on not saying it.”

Ron’s voice is a little weak when he tries, “no – Harry, you don’t have to –"

“I really do, Ron.”

He looks apologetically at them all, then he turns, and leaves The Burrow with just his broom.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has been kept alive through donations (thank you so, SO much to those that sent donations for this series in particular!!) and if you'd like to donate to help me through college and for getting food and junk, you can do that at paypal.me/loserchildhotpants and it means the absolute world to me!  
> (also, yesterday was my birthday! So this is a birthday-update for y'all! <3)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Trigger Warnings for this chapter, other than food mention
> 
> Side note; rude comments that are less like constructive criticisms and more like angry tirades that disregard the /point/ of the writing get deleted. Sorry if this comes as a shock to you.
> 
> If considering Draco Malfoy through the lens of potentially being a victim as well as an abuser (which all of them have been at some point, canonically), I encourage you to not read the rest of this fic. This fic is dealing with qualities of people that are not so cute all the time, aspects of mental illness that are not always likable and quirky and the idea that people should not be condemned to be judged by only the worst things they ever did.
> 
> If any of you are waiting for me to glorify the trio (more than they already have been, canonically and otherwise) and condemn any of the villains that were literal children during times of war, you will be waiting a long time.
> 
> At the beginning of this fic, I warned that dark themes would be addressed realistically and that all the characters would present symptoms of complex mental disorders. That means toxic behaviors /will/ be present. If you can't think critically about the writing and try to derive meaning from it and only get angry at me because you think I'm condoning poor behavior, just close the tab, my guy. Please do not bother leaving nasty comments. Thanks.

Harry leaves for the night, and for most of the next day, in fact – and in the afternoon the following day, when he returns from having flown around, aimlessly all night, breakfast is still set out for him, and Luna’s left him a parting letter, wishing she could have spent more time with him.

He thinks to himself it’s a lie, but he doesn’t bother telling anyone about that.

Not that there’s anyone to tell – everyone avoids him like the plague once he’s back, and he gets it - he really does. He supposes he should start considering finding his own place to live. That, perhaps - finally - he’s managed to overstay his welcome at The Burrow, and he should start going somewhere else to heal, where he won’t bleed all over everyone with his sorrow, and rage, and leftover… Whatever-ness that the war left behind.

October ends on that sour note, but even times as dark as those pass. 

Avoiding whatever garbage is featured in _The Daily Prophet_ , ignoring that his friends are avoiding him, and looking for anything to do that isn't punching, or screaming, Harry makes a point to write to Andromeda as a distraction.

He writes her regularly over the course of November, half hoping Malfoy might write him of his own free will if Harry makes his presence apparent enough – he doesn’t explicitly ask after Malfoy, but he does word himself vaguely in his letters, like ‘is everyone well?’ – the lingering implication that he knows Malfoy is living with her, and is including him in her questions. He gets the feeling Andromeda knows who he means, anyway, and is being intentionally obtuse.

Whenever she writes back, she assures him that all is well, as normal as it ever gets in a magical home, and mentions what growth milestones Teddy has hit - she manages to give him loads of information, and absolutely no detail whatsoever on Malfoy. It’s sweet, but infuriating as well.

He could always write to Malfoy himself, but he feels like that would still go over poorly. It's still something he contemplates doing whenever he's in the tub, trying not to drown while forever reaching for Godric's sword.

November is a cold and quiet affair; Harry’s keeping his loft-hunt away from prying eyes, and he thinks that, without having said a word to each other about the matter, he and Ginny may have broken up since his outburst in October.

He thinks the sight of his rage, just how much can get built up, and bottled in there, and then come gushing out like an open wound was… unattractive, to say the least.

He doesn't blame her, really. She's not looking at him the same and, truth be told, he's not the person he once was. He's angrier, he's colder, he's more bitter, and he's sadder, and he's all the things he didn't want the war to make him, but fighting it would be disingenuous, aside from totally futile. So, she's not looking at him like she used to, because he's just not the person she used to know. He's a little bit sorry about that, but not enough to act on it.

Maybe not enough at all. 

He can’t even tell if he’s hurt, or relieved.

In truth, Harry doesn't know what his outburst was really about.

Maybe it really was about Draco Malfoy, but he had gotten so defensive. And so quickly. He doesn't understand why. He thinks that his outburst may not have been about Malfoy at all, but about injustice, and his own suffering. Maybe everything he had said about Malfoy was something he had wanted someone to say about him - maybe he still feels like he's under attack, despite the war having ended. 

He doesn't know. He probably needs professional help - bringing up Hermione's parents was cold of him, and he's not sure how to apologize for that. He's a little amazed that Ron didn't deck him for it, but maybe Ron could tell that something's very wrong with him? Maybe he sees that Harry's sick, and isn't holding him entirely accountable for all he says?

Has Harry really lost his mind?

Would he ever know, if he did?

True to his word, though, for all of November and December, Harry keeps his head down, and his mouth shut. It's a bit like living with the Dursley's again, in that he spends most of his time consciously hiding away, and pretending not to exist.

Kind, patient, and forgiving as ever, Hermione tries to engage him every now and again, but it typically ends with him asking her very politely to please stop trying to pry him open.

Nothing good ever comes out when he’s pried open - didn't they all just learn that?

All that comes out is tirades about hatred, and death, and blood, and war – what good does it do anyone? He probably managed to insult every one in that circle in at least a dozen ways, and he’s not keen on fixing it, even if he knew how to. He stands by what he said.

He has no idea if he was actually heard or not, but he stands by what he said.

He has no idea if what he said was actually what he meant, or if everything he meant was what he said, but he stands by it.

Ron does ask him, at some point, where he's been sleeping, and when Harry tells him he's just been accidentally falling asleep on the couch downstairs lately, and not to worry about it, Ron clearly knows it's a lie. He knows Harry isn't going up to their bedroom anymore, maybe partially out of fear, but more because that warm feeling of welcome and comfort is gone. Maybe Ron can tell that too.

He tells Harry to try to make it to bed, that the couch can't be good for his back, and what Harry hears is, 'I still love you, even if I don't understand you right now. Please don't pull away.' 

Harry just nods, and mumbles something about trying harder to get up to bed when he's tired.

He doesn't.

So, November passes. Quiet, a little strained, but uneventful - no more bizarre outbursts, no tangents about universal injustice, but at least one letter from Neville. So, that's nice, Harry supposes.

December waltzes in with a chill and flurry, and Harry's stuck inside more often - he can't outrun the discomfort of the house on his broom, because it's simply too cold outside. He can't just take up walking as a new hobby - Hermione would undoubtedly try to join him, and he still feels too guilty about potentially having hurt her, or Ron, or Luna, or Ginny. Or all of them.

Probably all of them.

When it arrives, Christmas Eve is still lively, and as sweet, and full of loving air as Molly Weasley is capable of making it, considering all the sturm und drang.

The Weasley clan is all in one place again - a seat and plate are left open for Fred, but that doesn't take away from the joy of them all being together. The Burrow is lit up, multi-colored, full of music, fragrant candles, and incredibly good food. The tree is up, the presents are stacked, and it’s mostly peaceful. Still strained, but not enough to stop them from celebrating.

Once dinner starts, Percy brings up the newest updates on Hogwarts’ reconstruction, how close it is to opening again, and the room is full of good cheer, and happy chatter. It's happier, and simpler than it's been in ages, and that whole day - doing up the house, charming the house into real Christmas Magic - it all makes breathing easier for Harry. The atmosphere isn't so oppressive anymore. It's bearable. 

It’s nice, even.

But, this is Harry Potter’s life – so that can only last for so long.

In the middle of their talkative dinner, very suddenly, there’s the crackling sound that accompanies Apparition from outside, and everyone’s heads snap up at once.

They all look at each other, a little bewildered and wary – even Ron’s fork and knife stop moving.

“Expecting anyone else?” Arthur asks Molly.

She shakes her head, looking endearingly befuddled, but she stands, and looks out the kitchen window to see who might be approaching.

Whatever she sees out there shocks her – she tenses up very visibly, and then goes to the front door, lingering in the doorway for a while before throwing on a coat, and venturing out into the snow without a word to any of them.

The family gets up from their respective seats to look out the kitchen window, and there, against the blue sky still snowing, is Draco Malfoy, donned all in black, and carrying a satchel. Without prompting, George runs to his room, and returns with Extendable Ears for the lot of them.

They can hear the snow crunching under Molly’s shoes, and the wind picking up. It’s peaceful and quiet outside, otherwise.

Malfoy had been searching his satchel for something, unaware of Molly approaching until she was five or six feet away. He looks nervous once he sees her, and he straightens his coat collar up against the wind, abandoning the satchel for the time being, probably deeming it impolite to not look someone in the eye when they’ve approached so closely.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Molly greets a bit warily.

“Yes, sorry – I meant to make it to the door…”

“Whatever for?”

Nose pink, and ears reddening against the snowflakes gathering behind them, Malfoy reaches for his satchel again, rummages for a few moments, and then appears to lose patience with his leather gloves. He takes them off to better feel for whatever it is he’s looking for, and then he presents two dark, long bottles.

He looks to Molly, and explains, “it’s pixie wine. It’s over eighty years old – my great grandmother made it herself, actually. Caught the wild pixies, dusted their wings herself, and all. I… I just came by to give it to you.”

Instead of reaching for the gift, Molly appraises Malfoy with some small measure of amused confusion. She crosses her arms, and Malfoy is very apparently intimidated at the closed-off body language – as he ought to be.

“And why would you do that?”

Looking down at the snow, and glaring at nothing in particular, Malfoy mumbles, “I really don’t like that everyone’s asking me why I’m coming by today, and doing something decent. I am capable of it, you know – being basically decent.”

“I never questioned that,” Molly assures him, though it’s probably at least half a lie, “I just don’t understand what it is you’re doing here.”

Malfoy looks up into Molly’s eyes, and his expression is guarded, but brimming – he looks twitchy, and unsteady. A lot like he did at his mother’s funeral, Harry recognizes. That ‘brimming,’ that dam fit to burst sort of look – like there’s so much he wants to say, and no way to translate it, or relay it.

What Malfoy chooses to say to her is, “my parents cared a lot about standing by their outdated beliefs, no matter what new material was brought to them. I don’t think either of them really understood that it wasn’t a crime or weakness to change your mind in the light of new, or… more accessible knowledge. They’re not here anymore to dictate what I do as I grow, though, so... I… I don’t want to apologize to you, Mrs. Weasley.”

They stare at each other for a few beats in astonishment – he’s never said her name with such respect, and certainly never so seriously. The last thing he said should be an insult, but in how he delivers it, it somehow doesn’t feel like one.

“I don’t think an apology will fix anything I’ve done, and if I said to you now that I’m sorry for the person I was back then, it’d be a lie. I didn’t know any better than what I was told, and taught, and all I ever really wanted was for my parents to be proud of me – no matter what that meant. Even if it felt wrong. And even if I were really sorry for everything I’d ever said or done that offended, or hurt you, or any of your family, it wouldn’t be enough to atone for it, anyway.”

Molly takes a step closer to Malfoy as he adds, “it would never be enough. To just… say sorry. So, I won’t. I didn’t mean to, and I don’t – don’t mean to. So – I’m here. Just… trying to do something right for once. Something that’s my idea, and my idea of what’s right.”

Tilting her head curiously, Molly’s voice comes out laced with real worry when she asks, “you’re having a hard time of it, aren’t you, dear? Finally acting, and thinking for yourself?”

Bashfully, Malfoy nods, and replies, “it’s strange – every time I say something I know he’d hate, I expect to feel my father’s cane at my back – even when I was preparing all of this for everyone I visited today, I could hear my mother’s voice in my head, telling me that it wouldn’t do our family name any favors, and that I ought to stay at home, and just… save face, if there’s anything left to save, I guess.”

He fixes the bottles into the snow, and fiddles with the strap of his satchel over his shoulder, keeping his eyes down at the ground.

“Is this your first Christmas alone?”

There’s a pause, but Malfoy nods, and there’s a click in Molly’s throat – the kind of maternal, sympathetic noise she makes whenever something pitiful like that is presented to her.

“It’s fine. I’ll get used to it. Everyone spends some holiday alone at some point, right? Everyone does, at some point,” Malfoy insists, unable to keep Molly’s stare.

“What did you normally do? Christmas eves?” Molly asks conversationally.

When Harry thinks Malfoy might snap like a peeved snake, and turn away with a flourish, he’s stumped.

Malfoy doesn’t tell Molly it’s none of her business, and then storm off into the evening – he just sighs deeply, shrugs, and tells her, “I used to dance with my mother.”

The admission stuns them all into a deeper silence, and Malfoy goes on to explain to her, “sometimes we’d be at galas with other magical families, or important people I was meant to recognize, or extended family reunions, or other important events, and those were boring, but sometimes we’d just be at home, and my mother had this sleeping gown that was all, uhm – periwinkle. It was periwinkle. And satin. And it dragged on the floor,” Malfoy describes, a smile working its way onto his face, his eyes far-away, “She’d levitate the candles, and she’d Conjure flowers all around the room – petals would always get stuck between my toes, because neither of us would wear shoes.”

An empty laugh makes its way up his throat, and he touches at the part of his jugular that’s exposed, as if he’s trying to soothe his throat from the laugh it just gave. It was pitiable.

He keeps staring down at his shoes, and finishes, “it was perfect, then. It’s when we’d trade stories about the year, and I’d tell her everything I hadn’t written in my letters home, and she’d tell me stories about going to Hogwarts in her years, or traveling throughout Europe. Everything smelled like good food, and floral tea, and this dark amber perfume she used to wear, petals all over the floor, and candlelight everywhere, and she’d set music to play throughout the whole house, and we’d waltz all around the family room of the Manor together – me in my pajamas, and she in her gown, and we’d dance til midnight.”

_"I hope you dance..."_

That makes sense now, Harry supposes.

And now, Harry can't help but think that was a story Malfoy should've shared at her burial, but perhaps it wasn't a story he was ready to share until now. 

Malfoy’s hand tightens with white knuckles against the sling of his satchel, and he shakes his head, his voice going down a register when he mutters, “sorry. That was – sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you like this, from your family, and dinner – I really just wanted to drop these bottles off.”

“Is it alright if I call you by your first name, dear?”

After a beat of contemplation, Malfoy nods, though he seems confused by the question, and then comes Molly’s gentle sigh, and more crunching of the snow as she gets closer to him. She hugs her coat around herself, and Malfoy’s nose twitches with a sniffle.

Harry thinks to himself that it might be a tic of Malfoy’s he’s never noticed before.

“This is, uhm – this is my last stop,” Malfoy mentions, still seeming frightened to meet Molly’s eyes, “So, I ought to get going now.”

“Oh, Draco, dear. You lose so much more than a person, don’t you?” Molly asks rhetorically, “It’s always so much more than that. It’s these shared experiences, these memories, and traditions… I’m so sorry, dear.”

“It’s alright,” Malfoy tells her.

“It’s not,” Molly tells him sweetly with a shake of her head – he looks up to her then, and she smiles as they meet eyes, “It’s not alright. And that’s okay, dear. It’s okay to not be alright. Has anyone ever told you that?"

Rather than answering, Malfoy schools his features, and asks Molly, "are you, then? Are you alright?"

There's a few beats of quiet, and then, "no."

"Do you think you ever will be?"

Smiling strangely, Molly replies, "no. I don't think I'll ever be alright the way I used to be. But I think that's what loss that heavy does to a person. I'll heal, but it will scar. And that's okay. It will never be like it was, but I'll learn to live with the new scar, and be alright in a different way."

Malfoy looks doubtful, but before he can say anything else, Molly visibly alarms him by asking, "would you like to come in, dear? Have a plate?"

"What!? She _would not_ -" George stage-whispers (which gets him 'shushed,' by everyone).

"I - no. No, I just came by -"

"I know what you came by for, Draco," Molly reassures, "It's not easy, this first Christmas without them, though. And there's plenty of food inside - it's warm, and I've made enough dinner to feed a cavalry. I'm sure you could find something you'd like - even the pickiest eater wouldn't turn my table away." 

The thought of a warm cottage, flowers, presents, savory and sweet drinks and food to go around must be appealing - even to a Malfoy. Being fed up, and among people in his age group again might be an intriguing prospect too, because for a second, it seems like Malfoy is really, genuinely contemplating accepting the offer. However, mid-contemplation, he looks over her shoulder, and sees all of the faces squished together at the window of the kitchen, spying, and probably wearing an array of sneers, cocked brows, or other worried expressions.

He glances down at the ground, then back to Molly, and answers, "no. It's - that's kind of you, but no. I don't think that would be a good idea."

Molly sounds sincerely put out when she inquires, "why not?"

As if to assure her that he doesn't question her cooking or decorating prowess, he gesticulates vaguely, and explains, "there are a lot of powerful witches and wizards in that house currently that have likely thought up at least ten ways of dispatching me, and stowing the body where no one will ever find it again. I think they'd prefer I keep out, and I don't think I'd like to impose."

"Oh, don't be silly, they -" Molly turns to see them all in the window and, shocked first, she then scowls dangerously at them all - they disperse, but still listen through the Extendable Ears, which she still appears to be unaware of.

"It's alright," Malfoy tells her, "I didn't think - it's fine."

"Thank you for the wine, Draco," Molly comments - the sound of snow shuffling comes through the Ears again, and she adds, "It was very thoughtful of you. And if it's any consolation at all, I think your mother would be very proud of how you've grown, and the decision you made to come here today - to extend a kindness after such a dark time. This was good of you, and if there is no one else still here to say it to you, I will tell you that I'm proud of you today. Very proud."

There's no sound at all, and then the sound of fabric shuffling - Harry can't help but pop his head back up and investigate. 

Out in the snow, Draco Malfoy is being held tightly by Molly Weasley; he's bowed a little to accommodate her height, his head is tucked by the crook of her neck, and she's got an arm around his waist, and a hand on the back of his head.

"Oh, dear, you need a cap for this kind of weather. You'll get a fever walking in the snow with just your coat and scarf."

Malfoy doesn't reply, exactly - his shoulders go slack, his satchel slips off his arm, falling into the snow, and his hands come to grip at the sides of her coat.

Tightly.

_“She hugged me... it’s not – not the same... the way my mother held me – I’ll never have it again. There’s a way a mother holds her child, you know how I mean? A way that makes it seem like the worst is behind you, like nothing can touch you, because she’s near, like someone exists just to love you, and protect you, and truly has your best interests at heart... and they took that from me. I’ll never have it again..."_

His knuckles go white, gripping at Mrs. Weasley, and his forehead and the tips of ears get redder, and then, with a deep intake, he's pulling away.

Breathing looks like it's taking effort, his eyes are glassy, and he catches Harry's stare for a brief moment before looking away again. He blinks a few times, sniffs (his nose twitches again, Harry notices), and he says gruffly, "I have to go. Enjoy the wine, and happy Christmas, Mrs. Weasley."

"Happy Christmas, Draco."

With a snap, Malfoy is gone, and it takes a few moments for Molly to stop staring into space, and come back inside.

She's rather distracted for the rest of the evening, but to be fair, so is Harry.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicidal ideation and discussion is shared between characters.

In the first week of January, the letters arrive.

 

HOGWARTS SCHOOL _of_ WITCHCRAFT  _and_ WIZARDRY

Headmistress: Minerva McGonagall

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., International Confed. of Wizards)_

 

Dear Mr. Potter,

 

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to attend an eighth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, in order to see your education to its completion, and graduate.

Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on February 1st. We await your owl by no later than January 25th.

We do sincerely hope to see you this year.

 

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Headmistress

 

HOGWARTS SCHOOL _of_ WITCHCRAFT _and_ WIZARDRY

 

UNIFORM

Eighth-year students will require:

  1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
  2. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
  3. One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)
  4. Three white shirts for boys or blouses for girls
  5. Two grey sweaters, vests or cardigans
  6. Two charmable ties in house colours
  7. One charmable winter scarf in house colours
  8. Two pairs of trousers for boys, or skirts for girls
  9. Three pairs of white knee socks or black wool stockings for girls, or black ankle socks for boys.
  10. One set of dress robes (any colour, conservative style)



Please note that all pupil's clothes should carry name tags.

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

  1. Advanced Potion-making by Libatius Borage
  2. Futhark Magic: A Study of Ancient Runes
  3. The Advanced Arithmancer's Handbook
  4. Quintessence: A Quest
  5. Great Wizarding Events of the Twenty-First Century 
  6. Advanced Creature Care
  7. Advanced Herbology Editon Nine
  8. Muggle Space Exploration by Greenlee Warren
  9. The Standard Book of Spells Grade 7 by Miranda Goshawk
  10. Egyptian Origins: Magic of the Ancients by Fauna Smethwyck
  11. Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration 
  12. Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms 
  13. A Compendium of Common Curses and Their Counter-Actions 
  14. The Dueler's Art
  15. Bizmark's Guide to Broom Games Old and New



Note: For NEWT students, sixth year textbooks are also required for NEWT level revision.

OTHER EQUIPMENT

    1. 1 wand  
    2. 2 cauldrons (stone, standard size 1, copper standard size 4)  
    3. 1 set crystal phials  
    4. 1 telescope  
    5. 1 set brass or silver scales   
    6. 1 advanced potions ingredients kit  
    7. 1 set of protective gloves  
    8. Quills   
    9. Inks  
   10. Parchment  
   11. Blank Journal   
   12. Muggle Pencil or Pen if taking Muggle Studies  
   13. 1 abacus   
   14. Lunarscope  
   15. Crystal Ball  
   16. Rune Set  
   17. Wand Holster

Students may also bring two familiars or pets, with one of them being an owl. Approved familiars are:

Toad  
Cat  
Rat  
Pygmy Puff  
Owl

Others may be approved on a case by case basis. You will need to get permission from the school RPG admin before bringing any other pets to school.

 

Yours sincerely,  

Lucinda Thomsonicle-Pocus

Chief Attendant of Witchcraft Provisions

 

And just like that…

The Burrow is alight with movement again – so many things to do, to get, to cook, to clean, to pack - people to see, places to go, and Harry couldn’t be more delighted by the distraction.

Hermione is certainly cheerier (talking about her book collection, what she already owns, what she’s already read, what she looks forward to paging through, and so on), Ron’s mood seems to have a positive correlation with Hermione’s, so all is well there too. Molly is ‘back in business,’ as it were – she’s back in her comfort zone of being in a constant hurry. She has children to shuffle off to school, a list of books and materials to acquire, and she seems to appreciate the familiarity of it all.

Getting to Diagon Alley without incident is fine and well, but once they arrive, the place is maybe ten times busier than Harry has _ever_ seen it.

And that’s really saying something.

It seems almost like everyone is duplicating every three minutes or so - there are people pouring out of every alleyway, shop door, and street corner – and Harry has never been more anxious.

He can’t figure out a steady escape route - once he figures out one way to weave through the crowd, avoid touching as many people as possible, and how to get out quickly, the crowds shift, change - like the moving staircases - and he can't make a plan that stays the same, that secures him an exit. He doesn't think he'll _need_ to escape Diagon Alley in a rush, but what if he does? What if something unspeakable happens? What if spells, hexes, and curses start flying? What if the sky opens up, and there's a skull there, with a serpent descending on them all? What if they all look to _him_ to save them?

He's glad to be out, he really is, but at the same time, he'd prefer to be home, and what's even odder about that, is that he isn't sure what home _is_ anymore.

He’s getting sweaty, chilly, his heart is skipping every few beats, nausea is washing over him – he hates it. He feels trapped. There are too many people, and nevermind that it’s broad daylight. Never mind that he’s with his friends, his family, and the war is ‘over,’ – he hates this, he feels unsafe, and he’s never hated Diagon Alley before.

He does now, though.

Too many people – there are just too many people; he feels like he’s being herded.

There are too many noises; he can hear the scrape of shoes against stone, bells at the thresholds of doorways, windows shutting, opening, chatter – everywhere, chatter – zippers being done and undone, equipment being handled, sold, wrapped, music playing from all different directions, gossip being traded – and the smells!

He can smell everything – the food shops are overwhelming, the potion shops are even worse; he can smell the ingredients in the apothecaries, the herbs, the candles, the incense, the yellowed pages of hand-me-down books, the soaps of passers-by, the perfumes, the animals – _everything_.

Diagon Alley was supposed to stay happy, perfect, and magical forever, but it’s more like sandpaper against every inch of Harry’s insides now; he can’t tell if the war did that to Diagon Alley, or if the war did that to _him_.

Either way, it’s all too much. He hates it. He wants to leave as soon as he’s arrived.

There are young children on the cobble roads, too, though – the new class, it wound seem.

And seeing those young faces, those promises of ‘maybe-something-better-to-come,’ keeps him somewhat grounded.

Oblivious to his plight, the Weasley’s are all in discussion, ruddy blushes from the chilly air donning all their freckled faces, and Hermione is already ogling a nearby book set, when, among the avalanche of people, Harry happens to spot Blaise Zabini not too far off.

Not just Zabini, but who appears to be Zabini’s younger sibling, or cousin perhaps, as well.

He watches as Zabini glances over each shoulder, then he hears Zabini call out, “come on, Draco – Livia won’t move til you come along. She wants you to see what she gets.”

“Yes, yes, fine, I’m just - uncomfortable. It’s so loud. And there are so many people here today – are there always so many bloody people?”

Looking as pleased as a drenched cat, Malfoy appears behind Zabini, and – Livia, it would appear – bounces in excitement at seeing him.

“Draco! We’re going to get my wand!”

“Yes, Livvie, I know. Very excited to have a wand, are you?”

At the tone of Malfoy’s voice, Harry’s stomach turns in on itself.

He certainly hadn’t expected to see Malfoy at Diagon Alley, but he still has Malfoy’s wand on him (he’s taken to keeping it with him, just in case he finds the perfect thing to say, at the most opportune time, and all the stars and planets align in just the right way, and everything works out perfectly – not that that has ever happened to Harry before, but he’s been lead to believe it happens to some people, sometimes, somewhere).

Clearly, Malfoy’s been dragged on this school supply shop for Zabini’s sake – or the sake of Zabini’s young relative, who seems so taken with him. He doesn’t seem charmed by Livia, but he's certainly being tolerant, and that might be more to maintain his friendship with Blaise, than any real empathy for the kid.

Malfoy can’t go back to Hogwarts without a wand, and he seemed pretty determined to disappear entirely from the planet, the last Harry spoke with him.

But, maybe if he can corner Malfoy at Ollivander’s, he’ll feel enough social pressure to just take his thrice-damned wand back. And, maybe that will be enough to get him back to school.

He knows Malfoy must have gotten the same letter back to Hogwarts, too – did the heartfelt invitation not entice him at all? That Malfoy has no intention of attending is criminal, it’s despicable, and Harry won’t let the git walk away from their entire history there without a fight. To let Malfoy walk off like that, leave it all behind, like it all meant nothing – it just feels _wrong_. Malfoy is _part_ of going to Hogwarts - he's an integral part of the experience of Hogwarts. He can't just _not go_.

Without a word to Hermione or Ron, or anyone else, for that matter, Harry takes off after the trio, following them into Ollivander’s.

The bells ring as they step in, and he side-steps a few people to get a better view of Malfoy, Blaise, and Livia.

He watches from a short distance as Ollivander greets them, speaking to Livia softly. While their discussion is starting, Zabini glances off in some direction – towards a subtle noise Harry hears too.

Harry searches for the source of the noise the same as Blaise does, but there’s nothing to be seen.

So, he goes back to looking at Malfoy.

Malfoy is standing behind Livia, looking awkward, frustrated, and uneasy.

Harry wonders if he, himself, looks like that all the time.

Malfoy’s black suit is as pristine as Harry remembers it always being, but the young man himself, does not look put together at all. He is very apparently at Diagon Alley against his will.

Harry wonders if the war has made Malfoy hypersensitive to everything around him, same as it’s done to Harry. 

And, it occurs to Harry, then, that Malfoy being out and about Diagon Alley could be dangerous - Narcissa would want him to be watching over Malfoy at a time and place like this, wouldn't she? It's what he starts telling himself.

That noise erupts again, but louder – loud enough that everyone pauses.

They all take a look around, but nothing obvious has happened.

It’s the brief investigation of his surroundings that has Malfoy finding Harry by the door.

He glares at Harry, about to open his mouth, and try to send him scurrying, no doubt, but then his mouth shuts again. His eyes narrow, and he turns his back on Harry again when the door swings open, ringing that bloody bell, to allow Ron and Hermione through.

Harry is almost sorry the two showed up - he wonders what Malfoy would have said.

“Harry – what are you doing in here?”

He goes to answer Hermione, but the odd noise happens again.

“Is that a loose box, rattling around somewhere?” Ron asks, looking up at the precariously stacked shelves surrounding them.

As Ron says this, they all hear the noise again, and Ron is right – it’s a rattling noise, as if someone is wiggling a box out of place. They all hear the shuffle of boxes shifting, falling, some hitting the ground from somewhere far off, and then from far behind Ollivander’s counter, a boxed wand comes flying out.

It zips through the air with purpose, landing squaring against Malfoy’s solar plexus, knocking him to the ground, and against the far wall.

He groans, rubs at his chest, and stares down at the box that’s landed in his lap, as if it has personally offended him.

Which it likely has.

“What the bloody Hell just happened?” he asks.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Ollivander begins curiously, “are you in need of a new wand?”

“ _No_ ,” Malfoy bites.

To this, the wand responds – by flying up toward Malfoy’s face, and hitting him in the head.

He grabs the box, and is about to throw it against the floor in a fit of rage when Ollivander stops him.

“Wait! You mustn’t discard this wand, Mr. Malfoy!”

“Oh, really?” Malfoy asks sarcastically “And, why not?”

Blaise is half-smiling at Malfoy, looking pleased with Malfoy's bothered body language, pleased that this is how the visit is going – that magic has chosen to annoy Malfoy, in particular.

Truth be told, Harry feels happy at this occasion as well.

Perhaps Blaise wants Malfoy to go back to Hogwarts as badly as Harry does.

“The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Malfoy,” Ollivander reminds him, “This wand has sensed your presence – it is demanding your attention! Such loyalty and initiative should not be thrown away carelessly! Let me have a look, my boy.”

Begrudgingly, Malfoy stands, brushes his suit off, walks back to the counter, and offers the boxed wand for examination.

Ollivander uncovers the wand, brushing off dust, and revealing a beautiful wand, indeed.

“Ah,” Ollivander sighs, wistful, and inspired, “Now, this is a fine wand, Mr. Malfoy. This is twelve-inch, vine.”

“That so?” Malfoy asks drily, clearly uninterested.

“Yes,” Ollivander responds, undeterred by Malfoy’s aloofness, “Vine wands were common among Druids, in earlier times – elemental workers, and healers. They are a less common type of wand now. I have maybe three here in my shop, all told. Their wielders – those of vine – are often magic practitioners that seek greater purpose, have a vision beyond the ordinary, and who frequently astound those who think they know them best.”

"Sounds like you so far," Blaise tells Malfoy.

"Shut up," Malfoy mutters back.

“Vine wands are strongly attracted to personalities with hidden depths, and they are certainly more sensitive than any other wand type, when it comes to instantly detecting a prospective match. Vine wands can emit magical effects upon the mere entrance into their room of a suitable wielder, but I have only seen this happen twice in my shop – in all my years. This, being the third, now.”

“What’s in it, then? Is it powerful?” Livia asks.

Ollivander runs his finger over the length of the wand, intakes deeply, and reports back, “this wand has Augurey tail feather, and Vampire fang, so I would certainly say so. Augureys, or Irish Phoenixes, were once associated with powerful Dark wands, as their cries were thought to be like those of Banshees – predicting impending death. However, they are, in reality, not a strong _Dark_ core, and are, more accurately, a powerful core for Divinations – I recall, Mr. Malfoy, hearing word of your prowess in Divination. Your professors at Hogwarts were all quite astounded with your abilities.”

With a smirk, Ollivander eyes Malfoy, who seems to have grown paler, and even more unhappy, somehow.

“Misunderstood students may find themselves bonded to an Augurey wand, although these wands are altogether quite rare.”

“What about the Vampire fang, then?” Blaise follows up.

“Yes, as for the Vampire fang – Vampire wands, like Chimera Fragment wands, are very rare, and mostly heirloom wands. A Vampire fang core is most commonly handed down from previous owners of such wands, though no Malfoy has ever owned one, to my knowledge. Vampire fangs are a very versatile wand core, and can be used well for either Dark or Light magics. The Vampire fang has no certain divinity, and it bends to the will of its wielder – it is a very loyal core. This core works well with Charms, and Divinations too. Often, this wand is exceptional for potion stirring, as well. I have to say, Mr. Malfoy, I recall your greatest talents lying in all these subjects. Am I wrong?”

“It doesn’t matter if you’re wrong or right,” Malfoy announces determinedly, stepping back from the counter, “I’m not taking it.”

“Oh, but, Draco!” Livia whines.

“You’ve got to be kidding, Draco,” Blaise accuses, “A rare wand associated with all your traits literally just threw itself at you. It’s a sign.”

“You think _everything_ is a sign,” Malfoy scoffs, brushing Blaise off with a dramatic eye-roll.

“Have you considered, Mr. Malfoy, that perhaps _you_ may not need a wand, but a lonely, and quite exemplary wand, may very well feel the need for _you_?” Ollivander inquires, rhetorically.

Quiet finally settles in the shop, until Malfoy’s face turns completely humorless, and agitated – Blaise finds this funny, somehow. It would appear that this unhappy expression is the expression of Malfoy’s displeased acceptance of defeat.

“Looks like you’ll be going to Hogwarts, after all, kicking and screaming the whole way, mate,” Blaise laughs.

“Oh, good! I’ll get to go to school with Draco!” Livia celebrates, running at Malfoy to grab his arm in both of hers.

Malfoy glowers at Blaise from over Livia’s head, and mutters, “by the scalp of my head, you’ll drag me there.”

“That can be arranged,” Blaise offers nonchalantly.

Done with being handled by someone unfit, apparently, the vine wand flies from Ollivander’s hand and, with Malfoy’s good reflexes, he’s able to catch it.

He stares at it in his hand, turning it over a few times, wondering at it with sharp, silver eyes.

Harry has never been so many things at once; proud, envious, amazed, curious – and all on Malfoy’s account, no less.

Wonders never cease.

“So – you’ll come back? You’ll come back to Hogwarts?”

Harry hadn’t meant to ask that out loud – it just comes out, beyond his control.

It comes out gentle, too. Frightened, almost - cautiously hopeful.

As soon as he's said it, he knows he’s being stared at by everyone, and he’s highly uncomfortable with all the attention; he always has been, no matter what form it came in. Hermione’s eyes, in particular, burn the side of his head.

Malfoy moves his lidded, irritated stare to him, and announces through gritted teeth, “it would appear that way, Potter. Please do wait to hex me for when we get to campus – if I’m going to be ruined by the likes of you, I want a plaque in the Great Hall to immortalize me, at the very least.”

Harry frowns.

“I don’t want to duel you, Malfoy.”

“I didn’t say it’d be a duel, now did I?”

No one – truly, no one – can get under Harry’s skin more quickly than Malfoy. And, Harry thinks that must be some kind of black magic all its own, because Harry is certain _no one_ else could recreate the absurd fight-or-flight frustration that Malfoy can incite with a single sentence.

And he'd certainly be incited, certainly be inclined to fight with Malfoy, if he weren't so glad to know that Malfoy is going back to Hogwarts.

Quite suddenly, getting his materials for school does not seem like such a dreaded affair anymore.

"Fine," Harry says, "I won't throw any hexes, so long as you make it to the Quidditch pitch."

He's stumped everyone with that one, it seems.

Ron maybe chokes on air, Hermione twists her head around quick enough to give her whiplash, Blaise could be reaching for his wand, and Livia is watching all the expressions change on everyone's faces, back and forth, as if she were watching a tennis match. Malfoy's brows spring up, and his face slackens with surprise - he looks so much more youthful that way. Death, loss, war, and stress, has clearly aged him, but when he forgets the world, has only Harry in front of him, and magic in his hands, it would appear that he can look his age again.

"Unless, you're scared, that is," Harry teases.

Malfoy's slack face turns hard, and he tells Harry seriously, "oh, grow up. I'm not _scared_. I just happen to know where and when I'm welcome and unwelcome. Maybe a skill you should sharpen, _Potter_."

"No Quidditch, then?" 

"Harry, why do you care?" Ron asks honestly, indicating with the tilt of his body that he'd very much like to be leaving, and can't fathom why Harry's choosing to linger.

He looks to Ron, glances at Hermione, but frightened by the knowing sparkle in her eyes, he looks away quickly. He keeps Ron's stare instead, and suggests, "go on ahead. I'll explain later. Malfoy and I have business."

"Like Hell we do," Malfoy interrupts, "Leave with the Deplorable Duo, would you, and leave _me_ alone!"

"Charming as ever, Malfoy," Hermione sneers.

He sneers right back at her, and Harry gives her a pleading look.

"Please, Hermione. I'll explain later, I swear," he promises in a whisper.

Hermione doesn't look all too convinced, but she doesn't look like she's going to fight him on it, either.

"Be safe, Harry. And try not to do anything too idiotic."

"No promises," Harry jokes with a smile.

No smile is returned to him - she is clearly unhappy with whatever he's doing (and he really doesn't know what he's doing either, but he could say so in regard to most of the greatest decisions of his life too; he doesn't mind playing with dice). He does really intend to explain himself later, too. He couldn't hide his orders to protect Malfoy much longer from them. Once they were at Hogwarts, he'd either have been traveling to and from Malfoy Manor to do welfare checks, and suffer Ron and Hermione's scrutiny, or Malfoy would be at Hogwarts, and Harry would be watching his every move (which he's not been known for subtlety about, in the past).

He'll tell them about Narcissa's note.

Maybe they'll understand.

"You want me to get him to back off?" Blaise asks Malfoy.

Ron scoffs, glowering at Blaise, "as if you could."

"I don't mind putting _my_ money where my mouth is, but seeing as you lack the former, I doubt you can do the latter, Weasley."

Looking ready for an ugly brawl, Ron steps forward, but everyone is quieted by Ollivander.

"What principle is it you'd like to set for the young Livia, here? Are you all respectable witches and wizards, or do you honestly plan to taint this newly peaceful time with old, childish rivalries?"

Hermione glances at Livia with shame, ducking her head; it takes an elbow to the side from Hermione, but Ron does the same, and Blaise openly apologizes to Ollivander on all their behalves. 

Some stray on-lookers seem bewildered as to why Malfoy is hardly speaking on his own behalf. Hermione, Ron, and Harry all know why Malfoy isn't fighting his own battles, though; the moment he raises a wand, the Ministry will be there, ready to shackle him to something, somewhere. If he throws so much as a defensive spell, someone is bound to come looking for him, ready with any excuse to take him out of public. He's playing it safe, for his freedom. They all know that - Ron, Hermione, Harry, Blaise, Ollivander - and somehow, others being aware of his freedom being at risk seems to bother Malfoy more than if everyone treated him as though they were ignorant of it. 

"Find me at The Starry Prophesier in about an hour," Malfoy tells Blaise, "Potter will have just left, or will be leaving by then. That's just as much time as I'm willing to offer for whatever waste he has planned."

"Will you help me pick out my potions books, Draco?" Livia pleads.

"Certainly," he assures her, facing the counter again, "First, it looks like I'll be needing to purchase this wand."

"Nonsense, Mr. Malfoy," Ollivander dismisses, with a wave of his hand, "Take it. It is yours."

"I... I can't just take this wand," Malfoy insists.

"Of course you can," Ollivander replies, "Heed me - I have very rarely seen wands choose wielders as assuredly as you were chosen today. I don't know what has become of your old wand, but the magic surrounding you, and the magic inside you, knows you've changed. Your old wand won't suit you anymore. This wand would be prone to jealousy, anyway, and might chase after you, if you leave without it - that, or it might destroy my shop in search for you. I can't know if you've destroyed, lost, or abandoned the old one, but this new one is for the new _you_. Mr. Malfoy, I have known you many years. I have known your family even longer. It would be an honor to gift this wand of change to you - I hope you will do great things with it. Charm, Divine, make potions, and protect yourself - times have changed, the past is lying where it has been left, and you are good to have left it there. Usher in this new era of you and your magic with this wand, Mr. Malfoy. With my blessings."

Looking uncharacteristically humble, Malfoy grips the wand, nodding.

"Thank you."

Ollivander nods back to him, then tends to Livia again, as though such a transaction happens everyday.

While Livia is in discussion with Ollivander, Blaise asks Malfoy if he's sure about being alone with Harry, but Malfoy assures him that 'nothing of consequence,' will transpire. He shuffles his black cloak on, clips it in the front, and sticks his wand in the belt loops of his pants.

"Come along, then, Potter. You want my time, I'm granting it, and the clock is ticking."

Entitled as ever, Malfoy pushes past Ron, Hermione, and Harry, and invites himself out of the shop, not caring to look back and see if Harry is following.

Harry gives one last apologetic look to his very concerned friends, then starts off after Malfoy.

The sun gleams off Harry's glasses, blinding him for a moment, when he steps out. He shades his eyes with his hand, and follows beside Malfoy, as best he can - the crowds make it difficult to properly walk 'next,' to anyone.

"Too many people around," Harry mumbles, in a sad attempt at conversation.

Malfoy gives him an expression that lets Harry know precisely how sad the attempt was.

In an effort to stop embarrassing himself, Harry keeps quiet for their walk to The Starry Prophesier. Once they're inside, Harry follows Malfoy's lead - he goes to an aisle he seems to know well, full of crystal balls.

"You've been here before, I take it?"

"Obviously," Malfoy replies.

He passes the clear ones that Harry's most familiar with, and heads towards the darker colors, further down the aisle.

"Not - not getting a clear one? Aren't those... the most widely used, or something?"

"Perhaps, but Clear Quartz has never suited me. I use Blue Onyx, Obsidian, or Rainbow Fluorite for Divination."

"Why?"

"Because it works better - what is this, the Spanish Inquisition?" Malfoy snarks, running his finger down the curve of a dark purple orb, "Divination is an ancient art, which you'd know if you ever actually wrote your own papers for History of Magic. Clear crystal balls weren't in use for Divination, at the start. They're little more than an aesthetic now, for the more 'modern,' Diviner. Not that Clear Quartz is useless, but unless you're teaming it with Black Tourmaline and Selenite, I don't see much Psychic use for it. Early Diviners used dark colors, and Divined in the dark. They lit candles, and allowed that to be their only light source. This was so they could achieve deeper levels of meditation, staring into the dark of their crystals, unable to see even their reflections, open to what images might present themselves in their crystals without the pollution of light, or color. With some focus and patience, the mind is more open to cosmic knowledge. That's how you Divine things through crystals - or at least, that's how Scrying works. Different crystals are good for different purposes."

"You seem to know a lot about it," Harry compliments, thinking it might keep Malfoy talking.

"I do," Malfoy confirms, picking up a black orb, passing it between his hands, "This is Obsidian - it's not plain black, though; it has a gold sheen on it, which gives it this almost... olive colored light, inside. See?"

He offers the crystal ball to Harry, which Harry accepts. He stares into it, admiring the lines of gold and green inside. It's very beautiful.

"Yeah," Harry answers, "I see it."

There's a moment's hesitation before Harry decides that the compliment floating around in his head might do him some favors, if he's brave enough to say it out loud.

"I... I forgot, you know," Harry smirks, nervous, feeling his ears get hot, "I forgot how smart you are. It's intimidating, sometimes. Always was, a bit."

He looks up from the crystal ball to see Malfoy's reaction; Malfoy certainly isn't pale anymore, but he doesn't precisely look pleased. 

He looks befuddled, more than anything.

"Are you mocking me?"

"No. Should I?"

" _No_ ," Malfoy growls.

"I didn't intend to," Harry reassures him with a smile, thinking that it's funny how quickly Malfoy can switch back and forth between confused and irate, "I mean it. You're bloody smart. Your insults have always been sharp, you've always been neck-to-neck with Hermione in grades, and you're... you're a good Seeker too. I never said that. I never said that, I never told you that, and I should have. I should have told you sooner. You're a bloody good Seeker, and I want to play Quidditch with you again."

There's a beat of silence.

"What are you doing?"

Harry stares into Malfoy's eyes - they're distant, cold, guarded, but not void. Not so broken, lost, and horrible as they were some months before. He's healed some, it looks like. Harry's glad for it.

"I'm... trying to be your friend."

"I don't need anymore friends, thanks."

"Have you considered that, you don't, but maybe I do?"

" _Don't_ ," Malfoy orders, with an accusatory finger, "Don't fuck with me, Potter. I don't know what you're doing, I don't know what you want, but I -"

"You're living with Teddy," Harry intercepts, "He's my Godson, and I want to know how you've been getting on together. You lost your mother, and I was too much of a coward to send you my condolences outright, but I'd like to know if you're doing okay. I can't even speak on what happened to your father - whether I thought ill of him or not isn't relevant. I've wanted to write you a thousand times, send your wand back to you, ask you if there was more I could've done, but it all seemed wrong. It seemed like the wrong way to go about it, and I think I get it now - it's because it's all pity."

 _That_ certainly makes Malfoy angry, but Harry fixes himself right away.

"All of those things - the sending a 'sorry for your losses,' letter, and pushing your old wand onto you - it's all pitying, but I don't _feel_ pity for you, Malfoy, which is why it all felt wrong, and why I ultimately couldn't do any of it."

And, that statement, in turn, cools the fury showing between Malfoy's brows.

"I feel respect for you. After everything, I really do. I feel... I feel like there was more I could've done to help you, to help your family, to understand you, I regret not trying to make things civil between us earlier, and I... I feel like _you_ could've helped _me_. You could've helped me, could've helped my family, and you could've understood me, too. Maybe better than anyone else. You're bloody smart, Malfoy. You're clever, you're brilliant, and if I'd put my pride aside long enough, tried then to do what I'm doing now, maybe... maybe things could have been different."

Without responding, Malfoy just stares at him. It's unnerving. 

A long minute passes before Malfoy says anything, and it's just in time, because Harry was about to open his mouth with no idea about what he was going to say (again).

"Teddy's good."

Harry's eyes widen, and he moves his glasses up his nose - a nervous tic. 

As if mirroring him, Malfoy's nose twitches - another nervous tic.

 _Finally_ , Harry thinks humorously - they're on the same page. The same nervous, ill-equipped page of British Men Sorting Out Feelings, in the book no one reads, because that book doesn't exist, because British Men Sorting Out Feelings never happens in reality. 

"He's sharp. He's doing well, and he can cut into my sleeping hours, but it's fine. He's fine."

"Good," Harry says, for no other reason than saying something, "That's good."

"I don't want to talk about my parents, and I don't want to talk about the war."

"Okay. That's fine. It's fine - that's fine," Harry repeats, nodding too much, and somehow short of breath, "I don't - I don't want to either. It hasn't been easy, exactly. I've said that so much during trials, and funerals, I don't even know what that sentence means anymore, though. So, I don't. I don't want to talk about the war. I don't either."

"Fine - then what would you have written me?" Malfoy asks, crossing his arms over his chest, "In the letters you never sent?"

"Well... I'm looking for somewhere else to live," Harry offers, "Can't decide whether to buy, lease, or rent. Barely know where to start looking - have no idea what I'll do once I graduate, or where I'll wind up, but, truthfully, I'm a bit desperate to get out of the Burrow."

"Does Weasley know that?"

Harry shakes his head, and Malfoy seems genuinely shocked.

"Have you not told him, purposefully?"

"I suppose?" Harry shrugs, scratching the turn of his jaw, "I just know he won't like the idea of me living alone, and I don't want him lecturing me. I can't even predict how Molly will react, either. She's not above barricading."

"You and the youngest moving out together?"

The mean nickname Malfoy has on reserve for Ginny is gone - that has to be a good sign, right?

Harry takes it as one.

"No," Harry answers, "I... we're not... we're not really together anymore."

"Good for her; she can do much better."

Without noticing, Harry had been staring down at his feet, and at that, his head shoots up to find Malfoy smirking at him.

It's playful - it's not hateful, it's not void, it's not even a symptom of plotting. It's just a very obvious pat of Malfoy's back, gifted to himself, by himself.

"Gee, thanks, Malfoy. And, what about me?"

"You? You honestly plan on making someone else suffer you?"

"You're very certain suffering will be involved?"

"Obviously," Malfoy drawls, "It's _you_ we're talking about." 

There's a pause, wherein, Harry isn't sure how he feels. He can't tell if his feelings are sincerely hurt, or if rough-play is the only way Malfoy knows how to communicate. Maybe he means it all in jest, or maybe there's some measure of truth to it. After all, Harry said he respects Malfoy, but Malfoy didn't return the sentiment.

"So, that's what you would've written to me about?" Malfoy asks.

"I suppose so. Moving - or, trying to - the weather, how much weight I've gained, loafing around with nothing to do. Ordinary stuff."

" _Ugh_ ," Malfoy emphasizes with disgust, "How pathetically pedestrian. I'd not have written back."

That, for whatever reason, makes Harry smile, "too above small-talk, are you?"

"Definitely. I hate small-talk. I always have. I can't stand it, and you know why?"

Harry shakes his head to indicate that he really couldn't fathom what goes on in Malfoy's head at all, never mind the subject - which is very honest of him.

Malfoy steps closer to him, holding the Obsidian still in Harry's hands, making all that he says so lowly all the more strangely intimate.

"I can't stand it, because I constantly feel like there’s a bloody elephant in the room, shitting all over everything, and nobody is saying anything about it. I’m asking about job prospects of people whose names I forget as soon as they're out of my line of vision, when I'd really rather ask, 'evening, mate, do you ever feel like jumping off the fucking Astronomy tower?' or 'do you lie awake at night, a dark abyss cracking you open from the chest, and you can't escape it, but you barely know if you want to, because everything is so bloody useless, and fucking meaningless, anyway?' But, you can’t say that at a House reunion party. You can hardly say it to a professional."

"Why are you saying it to me?" Harry asks solemnly.

"Because I hate small-talk," Malfoy answers easily, "Keep up."

He takes the Obsidian from Harry's hands, and puts it back on the shelf.

"Weasley doesn't want you living on your own, and you think you're in for a lecture once you try to move away - it's because you get it, right? You get the jumping off the tower, and the lying awake at night. He's distracted - he's not unaffected by the war, but he's not in the same state you are. He can't relate. Not that way. Or maybe you just haven't tried. Or maybe it's him that's not trying - either way, he doesn't want you alone because, what? He thinks you'll kill yourself?"

Harry's heart skips a beat, his smile is long gone, and so is any trace of Malfoy's.

"See, if you'd written me a letter about wanting to kill yourself, I'd have been much more inclined to write back. Or at least read it."

"You think about it, Malfoy? About killing yourself?"

"I think anyone who doesn't is too idle-minded for me to tolerate, honestly," Malfoy explains, "I bet you think the same thing, you're just to nice to say it. And don't think 'nice,' is a compliment - it's an evolutionary tactic. People are 'nice,' to form alliances, it's tit-for-tat, it's all about trade, and security, true altruism isn't real. Being nice is something dolts do to hedge their bets, which is why I'm not very nice."

"You don't need to hedge your bets?"

"No, I'm not a dolt," Malfoy corrects.

"But, I am, I take it? Because I'm nice?" 

"You figured that much out, so you can't be too much of a dolt, now could you?"

"Is it always like this with you?"

"Mostly, yes," Malfoy responds, staring at, and touching a deeply purple orb, "Sick of trying to be my friend yet?"

"Not at all," Harry says, rising to the challenge, "What kind of crystal is that?"

"It's black Amethyst."

"I like the Obsidian one better."

As Malfoy walks away, further down the aisle, with his back turned to Harry, he says, "I didn't ask."

"I know," Harry acknowledges.

"This won't work," Malfoy tells him, sounding somewhat aggravated.

"I've made more hopeless situations work in the past," Harry assures, "Let's talk more about killing ourselves."

"Stop it," Malfoy tells him sternly, "Just... stop. I don't get what you're doing."

"Turn around, then."

To Harry's surprise, Malfoy does as he's told. 

Harry holds out his hand, and starts, "my name's Harry Potter, which you've made lots of fun of before, but I don't find it particularly funny. I don't think your name is funny either. There are good and bad Wizarding families, just like there are good and bad people, which I don't think I can help anyone with sorting out, anymore. I don't know that the world is so black and white anymore, really, and I think I'm ready to be your friend, if you'd like to give it a try. I'll leave you alone if you really want me to, but I'd like to give being friends a try. Would you? Would you like to be my friend?"

He keeps his hand extended, hoping beyond hope that it will be taken. That this gesture, so belated, will be accepted.

Harry doesn't mean to use nostalgia as a weapon against Malfoy, but that seems to be the effect it has. 

Malfoy blinks, wide-eyed, color in his high cheekbones, his jaw looking clenched. He stares at the hand, unmoving for a few moments.

Then, seeming decided, Malfoy squints his eyes suspiciously, but just mumbles, "cheater," before taking the offered hand, and shaking.

It seems mention of their past interactions is considered 'cheating,' - Harry inwardly notes that for later reference.

" _Cheater_? Now, _that's_ pedestrian," Harry jokes with a comedic, hyperbolic drawl, shaking Malfoy's hand with a smile, "I prefer _saboteur_." 

"Oh, and now, he decides to be funny," Malfoy announces sarcastically.

"Let me write letters to you, you git. I won't waste your time with small-talk, and you don't even have to write back."

"We'll be going to school together soon," Malfoy mentions, looking confused.

"Yes, I know," Harry tells him, finally letting go of Malfoy's hand; his own tingles and feels warm, after letting go, "I'd like to write you, anyway."

"Whatever," Malfoy decides, giving his final answer.

Harry grabs the Obsidian with the gold sheen, and hands it off to Malfoy.

"Get that one. It's lovely, and it's dark."

Malfoy cocks a brow, "and to rest on? Silver, or gold?"

"Silver, right? Silver would be best."

"Gold would compliment it more."

"Yes, but silver is more you," Harry explains.

Malfoy tilts his head, and it's then that they both hear Blaise's voice.

"Over here," Malfoy calls out, beckoning Blaise and Livia.

Blaise finds his way to their aisle, looks to Harry, then to Malfoy, and says, "I thought you said he'd be gone by now."

"He's just leaving," Malfoy responds assuredly.

"Yeah, I am," Harry agrees, "I'll see you around, Malfoy."

"Unfortunately, you're probably right."

"That's the spirit."

With that, Harry leaves to find Hermione and Ron.

He feels brand new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! I'm sorry this fic has been so neglected. All my WIPs have! I've had a rough go of things lately; I'm in a serious financial rut, my husband has left for a combat deployment, I've taken in a friend of mine from an abusive household, I've moved, I'm at the end of a school semester, and I'm nearing the end of my degree, so I've been inundated with work, and all sorts of distractions. 
> 
> Thank you to all of those that left encouraging comments, and not just 'when will you update,' 'come back i miss this fic,' and other things like that - those make me feel horribly guilty, and definitely uninterested in updating. Please, if you leave comments like those, stop. As for everyone else that left thoughtful reviews while I was absent from here, thank you! My schedule has cleared up a little, so I'll likely be updating this fic again more regularly. I still have commissions to fill, edit, finish, and post, but this fic won't be ignored or abandoned, and you can expect another update soon. 
> 
> Thank you all for your patience! <3


	8. ANNOUNCEMENT

**IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT:**

I've been inundated with hateful comments on this fic.

I've considered abandoning it.

Part of the reason I stopped updating for so long was because of one particularly hateful message left for me here, that caused me horrible anxiety returning to this story.

This fic is really important to me. From my own experiences of trauma, survival, mental illness, and healing, this story comes from my heart, it comes from a place of love, and kind intention, and I don't want to walk away from it because someone thinks that 'hero characters,' are problematically sympathetic toward 'villain characters.' I've literally been accused of being a Nazi-sympathiser because of how I'm writing Draco's arch here.

What I have to say here is that, if you have nothing constructive to say, please leave this fic alone.

 **Constructive criticism** are things like, "I feel that ___ was out of character in doing x. Why did you make that decision?" or "The thoughts here are interesting, but the POV switching between Character A and Character B is confusing," or "I don't feel like Character A doing x was realistic, or believable - will this make sense later or something?" etc

Constructive criticism is **NOT** , "you are abhorrent," "people don't do x," "people don't act this way in the real world," "this is disgusting," etc. 

There is not some one thing that is a universal truth - if you don't think a character is acting in-character, maybe if you inquire about it (politely), I'll explain, or if you WAIT for the story to advance, you might see the motives behind all the characters' actions. Telling me I'm immoral, abhorrent, unethical, problematic, or something else, because you don't like what I'm writing, please, do us BOTH a favor, and STOP READING.

To discourage the horrendous comments I've been getting, I'll be changing the settings for comments, so that only people with AO3 accounts can comment, and moreover, I won't be receiving the comments directly anymore. The comments will be vetted by a friend of mine, who has volunteered to read them, delete the gross ones that are troubling, or only insulting, and serve no purpose other than to upset me, then forward me the comments worth replying to (because I try to reply personally to all commenters).

So, if your goal is to insult me, my writing, or just send something upsetting, I can promise you, I won't be seeing it. Only encouraging, thoughtful, constructive, helpful comments will be making it to my eyes from here on out. If you've been seriously 'bullying,' or 'trolling,' me on here, you can call it quits now, because I won't be seeing it. It wasn't worth the effort before, and it will be even less worth the effort now, seeing as I won't be suffering your bizarre, unwarranted wrath. 

If you're someone who leaves encouraging/helpful/constructive/motivational comments, I implore you to keep leaving those comments. It keeps me motivated and inspired, and you'll be hearing back from me.

I'm really sad I had to make an announcement like this. 

I understand that the issues of war, mental illness, forgiveness, abuse, and emotional scarring, are all sensitive subjects to write on. I am a long-term abuse survivor, I have a degree in psychology (and I have studied psychology and human behavior recreationally for over a decade), I have gone through a ton of different healing processes, and I know what I'm writing about. I am handling it with as much care as I can while still being realistic, so I can promise you that angry comments meant to insult me, not only will not reach me, but I seriously doubt your rage would've opened my eyes to some great truth I haven't experienced on my own.

So, to sum this up - if you leave horrible comments, degrading me, insulting me, with no real basis other than taking personal offense at my own perception of pain and healing, your comments won't be seen by me anymore, and will be deleted on-sight by someone unaffected who will be vetting them. If you leave the comments that are actually helpful and kind, please continue - I live for the support and interacting with my readers. It helps me to grow as a writer (which is why I encourage constructive criticisms - I really do appreciate these insights, and I learn from them)

Thank you all for reading this.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Trigger Warnings for this chapter!  
> The letters are handwritten in this, so if they're difficult to read, I put the translations in regular print, in the bottom notes! If there's anything I should tag as a trigger for this chapter, please let me know in the notes! I hope you enjoy the new installment - thank you, to all of you have posted your support for me, recently!

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione sighs sadly, looking down at the black note left by Narcissa.

They’re in a pub, right across the cobble road from Slug and Jigger’s Apothecary, where Harry is waiting, in full knowledge, that Malfoy won’t be able to resist the shop.

It’s been hours since they parted ways – he probably ought to stop looking out for the git, but he keeps his eyes peeled for that shocking blonde hair, and dark, black suit, anyway. He’s hoping for a reason to leave the pub, talk to Malfoy again – it was abysmal, that conversation they had, but it was thrilling too, in its own strange, right.  

He hasn’t felt so lit up since he first flew a broom. He can’t wait to get out there again – can’t wait to fly again. To talk to Malfoy again.

He wonders if he should start drafting a letter to Malfoy, in the meantime. Maybe that would soothe his ridiculous nerves.

“You should have said something sooner,” Hermione bemoans.

Harry wants to mention that he can barely muster the courage, and wisdom, it requires to express his own emotional needs of late, and how in the world was he meant to translate _this_ entire, emotionally wrought, complicated situation to them – but he resists saying so. He just keeps glancing over her shoulder, out the window, wondering when that apothecary’s door will swing open, and it will be Malfoy stepping in.

And if (when) Malfoy goes in there, for Advanced Potions supplies, should Harry go after him? Or should he give Malfoy space now? Perhaps seeing each other twice in a day would be too much?

Harry has suddenly forgotten how he ever socialized with anyone other than Hermione and Ron, now.

“This is so fucked up,” Ron mutters, shaking his head, refusing to look at the note, “She shouldn’t have lorded that over your head, Harry. That’s messed up. You don’t  _owe her_  for a decision she made of her own free will – maybe the one good decision she _ever_ made! I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

“It’s a mother’s dying wish, Ron!” Hermione exclaims disapprovingly, “Harry  _couldn’t_ ignore it! And I’m appalled to think you would!”

“It’s _Malfoy_ , we’re talking about here! Have I gone to Barmy-Ville, or something? Am I the only one remembering that elitist little prick –"

“You’re not the only one remembering it, Ron, you’re just the only one holding onto it,” Harry interrupts, looking down at his drink before Ron’s scathing glare could catch him, “I shook his hand today. He’s changed a lot. He wants to change more, whether he says so, or not, it’s clear, or he wouldn’t have accepted that wand – and he’s not exactly… uhm, _friendly_ , but he’s not as pig-headed as he was during the war. It was a hard time for everyone, Ron. I think it’s left him changed. I think Luna was right about him.”

“No.”

“No, to what?” Harry specifies.

“No, as in _no_ – you’re-you’re  _priming_  me for convincing me to be friends with him, and I’m not gonna do it!”

“I’m not doing anything like that, Ron,” Harry assures him calmly, “I just need you – both of you – to know what I’m up to. I’ll be writing to him, but neither of you have to, or should feel the need to. I’ll be talking to him, trying to get to know him, keeping an eye on him –"

“For his mum?”

Harry pulls his eyes up, at that. He looks Ron in the eye, pinned by Ron’s insightful gaze, feeling the heat of his anger from across the table.

“You’re doing this for his mum, are you? She said to protect him. Not befriend him.”

Harry swallows nervously.

“I don’t see how I can protect him, Ron, if he won’t let me close at all.”

“ _I_ don’t see how _you_ can’t see what you’re already doing!” Ron argues, looking frustrated, “You’re gonna come back here, you’re gonna come back to both of us for help for something, cause you’ve got a bleeding heart, and I get it, Harry, I do, I get that your boundless empathy is a thing about you, but it has to stop somewhere! He hurt my family, he mocked us, he made life Hellish for us for years. I’m not just gonna put it all to the wayside, because he might’ve decided that being a horror all his life wasn’t a stellar choice! Protecting him is one thing, but that’s not it, Harry – you’re reaching, and it’s obvious.”

Incited at all the accusatory language, Harry’s temper begins to turn, “reaching? For what, exactly?”

“Reasons!” Ron answers, as though it’s a mockery he has to answer at all, “Reasons to be around him! You’ve always wanted a reason to be around him, and you know what? You know what I think it’s all really about?”

“Oh, go on, Ron, enlighten me,” Harry encourages sarcastically, gesturing vaguely at Ron.

Ron’s ears go pink with his growing anger.

“I think you treated Malfoy like shite before giving him a chance – just because he started off on the wrong foot with you. He started off in the wardrobe shop – didn’t you say? Isn’t that what you told me? That you’d met him while getting fitted for your Hogwarts robes? And he’d barely said anything to you, but you sensed he was a snob, and you told me – you _told me_ – he reminded you of Dudley, and ever since then, he’s been the bane of our existence, right up until his mum dies! His mum dies, and suddenly, you’re just – it’s like sixth year all over again! Trying to talk to you like it’ll stop you from whatever you wanna do with Malfoy – and it won’t, and I know that, and that’s why I’m telling you, right now, that I’m not befriending Malfoy. I’m not.”

“Why would this have anything to do with what happened before first year even began?” Harry asks outrageously, although Ron’s got a point – he won’t concede to that, though, “I had a visceral reaction to a brat – yeah, and then I grew up, and I realized we were both eleven years old, Ron! We were barely people! Why are you so Hellbent on staying this angry?”

“Boys,” Hermione interjects, probably with some middle-ground peace-offering to make – then she glances out the window at a sound – Ron looks, and so does Harry.

It would seem that Malfoy has just bumped into Goyle.

They can hear the interaction from inside the pub, with the pub’s door being open. There are plenty of conversations still going, and tons of people outside, but Malfoy’s upper class accent, and Goyle’s distinct, grunty, way of talking makes them stick out.

“Draco,” Goyle says in surprise, though not unhappily.

“Greg,” Malfoy begins carefully, checking him over with his eyes, “What are you doing here?”

“Same as you, I suppose. Last-minute shopping,” Goyle answers, gesturing at his bags, then adds, “I thought you and Pansy weren’t coming back?”

“Pansy was not physically chased by a wand, so she’s been excused, it seems.”

Goyle smiles a little, “were you _chased_ by a  _wand_ , Malfoy?”

“A bloody clingy one, too, apparently,” Malfoy answers, gesticulating at what appears to be a newly-acquired wand holster on his left thigh, “It’s been pulling and pushing in all kinds of directions all Goddamn day. Smacked my face for nearly leaving it at the shop.”

At that, Goyle laughs, and proclaims, “the wildest stuff always happens to you, Draco.”

Interestingly, Malfoy seems abashed at that comment – Harry considers that, just as he’s a bit of the ‘special one,’ among his friends, perhaps Malfoy is the same to his. Perhaps Zabini, Parkinson, Goyle, and, for a time, Crabbe, thought Malfoy must have fantastic adventures they couldn’t fathom.  

Malfoy looks to the ground, then asks, “you have everything you need, then?”

With a grimace, Goyle answers, “not even half, actually.”

“You always did have trouble with the lists,” Malfoy notes, smirking a little, “Why don’t I help you?”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“The fresh air’s been good for me, actually,” Malfoy tells him, finally looking up from his shoes again, “Been stuck indoors too long – Ministry’s tracking me, but I’m not technically under house arrest. I could go where I please, I’m just limited, these days. Diagon Alley is certainly an exception, though. And I could use an excuse to stay out a bit longer.”

“Well, then, I’m in luck!” Goyle smiles.

“You know – you’re a strong man, Greg. I could use your help, actually.”

“Ahh, I see how it is! Buttering my up for some physical labor, aye?” Goyle sing-songs teasingly, clearly not offended in the least, “What heavy-lifting you need done, Draco? Just point at stuff, tell me where to carry it all, and I’ll take care of whatever you need.”

Malfoy’s nose twitches, and so Harry suspects he’s nervous, though, he can’t imagine what Malfoy is nervous about. Perhaps Malfoy gets uncomfortable, asking for help so directly? It’s hard to tell.

The nervousness seems to have no place in reality. It’s really rather endearing – Goyle’s undying loyalty to him. It’s blind, and probably ill-advised, but it’s sweet, in its own way.

“Well, it’s the Manor, actually.”

“I’m real flattered you thought of me, Draco, but I don’t think I can lift the entire Manor.”

Goyle says that in all seriousness.

Snorting, Malfoy rolls his eyes, and tells Goyle, “no, you ignoramus. I… I’m donating everything to one of the recovery programs, for the people that lost their homes in the war. I’m gathering and donating all that’s in the Manor that isn’t used, and then the land.”

“Wouldn’t your dad want you to keep it, though? I remember him being real territorial over the Manor,” Goyle mentions.

Malfoy seems to bristle a bit at the mention of his father, but he simply says, “he doesn’t know who he is anymore, Greg. The Manor hardly matters to him. Besides, I’m living with my Aunt Andromeda full-time, now, until I find my own place. I don’t intend on staying at the Manor once I’m off the Ministry’s tracking program. Can hardly stand looking at the place, nevermind staying in it.”

“I understand,” Goyle says – and maybe he does, “I stoked the fireplace at my parents’ house just a week or so ago, the fire kicked up, and I just – flew back. I don’t even know what happened. I just know an hour passed, when I got time back, I was on the floor, crying, and my parents were trying to talk me back to myself. I can’t imagine what the Manor must be like for you. I’ll help you move out – no problem at all.”

“Thank you,” Malfoy says graciously, straightening his cloak out, “Come in the apothecary with me – I’ll gather ingredients for a Calming Draught, so you won’t have episodes like that again, or if you do, you’ll have a way out of it – and then we can tackle whatever you’ve left on your list.”

“Brilliant, Draco – thank you,” Goyle tells him.

Malfoy holds the door open for Goyle when they go inside, and the Golden Trio sit quietly together in the aftermath of implications in that overheard conversation, all with warring expressions.

The tension is palpable.

They never discussed Crabbe. Not at length, really.

They never discussed the Fiendfyre either, actually. The closest any of them had come to that was when Ron woke up in the middle of the night, maybe a month after the incident, sweating, panting, and panicked.

Already sitting up, picking compulsively at his lower lip, and staring into the semi-darkness of Ron’s room with a degree of dissociation washing over him, Harry had been awake, and able to ask what was wrong. It had taken a moment of shuddering breaths, but Ron had ultimately answered, through rough breaths, “stuck in the Room of Requirements. Couldn’t get out.”

Harry had helped Ron establish that he was quite safe from the Fiendfyre, and that particular nightmare was far behind them, but as far as the Silver Trio (Crabbe, Goyle, and Malfoy) goes, Hermione, Ron, and Harry, had never discussed them, or the Fiendfyre, or Crabbe’s death. Not really.

Harry isn’t sure he has anything to say about it, though. He understands that these types of emotionally overwrought things need to be ‘talked through,’ but he just doesn’t know what to say.

He sometimes thinks he should apologize for putting Hermione and Ron in danger, because he couldn’t leave Malfoy behind. He didn’t want to leave Crabbe behind either – that was beyond his control, but _had_ he been able to rescue Crabbe, he would have. No matter the risk. And, maybe that makes Harry selfish, and dangerous. Maybe that’s worth saying, worth apologizing for. Or, maybe, Harry’s recklessness is something Ron and Hermione already know well about him, and they don’t need anymore reminding of his flaws.

They’re both unlikely to accept an apology about any part of that night, anyway. Harry’s ‘ultimate,’ sacrifice seems to have this effect on people – as though his own sacrifices, by just having made them, automatically invalidate anyone else’s suffering.

He hates that – he wishes people would just talk to him, even if it’s about ugly things.

Like jumping off the Astronomy Tower, or lying awake at night, not caring whether the Earth swallows you up, because living and dying seem to have the same, awful meaninglessness to them.

That’s an ugly, even frightening, thing to have heard, and felt, but Harry’s glad he did.

Malfoy suffers unapologetically.

Harry likes that about him, he decides.

Unconcerned with whether or not his woes are lesser or more than Harry’s, Malfoy just suffers. He’s not concerned with learning Harry’s story, and comparing it to his own.

Malfoy certainly doesn’t want to hear it anymore, as he already knows it as well as the rest of the Wizarding World. And even so, he isn’t scared to tell Harry that he pretty regularly thinks about killing himself, can’t stand talking about the war, or his parents, can’t stand small talk either, and he’s still his snobbish, haughty self the whole while.

He isn’t so self-pitying that it drowns out all else about him. He just suffers, and if Harry inquires after it, Malfoy will be honest. He may not indulge in it, he may not share the fine details of his suffering, but he’ll own it. He doesn’t mind that Harry died in the forest that night, and he doesn’t mind Harry’s past suffering. Malfoy suffers, knows it is his own suffering, separate and different than anyone else’s, and that, Harry thinks, makes him easier to talk to.

Malfoy teased him about being a ‘hero,’ all Harry’s life, but he never really thought of Harry as a hero. At least, Harry doesn’t think he did. It keeps Malfoy apart from the rest – he doesn’t glorify Harry, and Harry can relax around him because of that.

“I’m going to offer to help him move,” Harry announces.

“I think his mother would appreciate that gesture, Harry,” Hermione compliments.

There’s a beat of silence, where Ron says nothing at all.

“Right. We should – erm – we should go soon, yeah?” Harry pipes up.

“Yeah,” Ron mumbles, searching for coins in his pocket, “I’ll cover us here.”

As she knows everything (and often before anyone else), Hermione likely knows it too, but Harry knows that paying for his lunch is Ron’s way of apologizing for his outburst while not having to actually apologize. So, Harry accepts Ron’s gift of lunch, but bears in mind that he likely won’t be able to go to Ron, in the future, about Malfoy. No matter what he uncovers.

It’s impossible to explain why forgiveness for Malfoy came to Harry so easily. It didn’t come easily, really, but it certainly came to him more naturally than anyone but Luna Lovegood seems to understand. He wishes there weren’t this great divide between Ron and him – he hates fighting with Ron.

“Ron?”

Ron’s head pops up from his jean pocket, his face is unreadable.

Harry swallows roughly.

“Yeah?”

“I…” Harry begins uncertainly, “…do you think… do you think it’s wrong? For me to forgive Malfoy? I can’t take back what I’ve said and done already, but I… maybe I’m not seeing things right? Have I… have I really lost my mind?”

Perhaps, Harry thinks, this is just like the Fiendfyre. He didn’t really give Ron and Hermione a choice in going back into the flames with him – all for Malfoy, who, by the standards of many, did not ‘deserve,’ saving.

This may be some type of parallel – Harry is ready to go back into the fire, ready to reach for Malfoy’s hand, get him somewhere safe – Harry is ready to let the past lie where it’s been left, start anew, in a new world, in a new age of himself, of his magic, of all the promise of the good yet to come.

But maybe Ron doesn’t want to – maybe Ron is only beside Harry now out of some misplaced sense of obligation, but he cares about Harry too much to say so. Maybe, if Ron were the one leading the way, he’d fly off, and leave Malfoy behind. And maybe that wouldn’t haunt Ron – maybe that wouldn’t bother Ron the rest of his days, the way it would Harry.

Harry has no desire to force Ron or Hermione to do anything they don’t want to do. And there’s the possibility that he’s still seeking out to be someone’s hero – maybe his ‘boundless empathy,’ is more grating than it is helpful.

Harry doesn’t know – he can’t see it. He can’t tell anymore. He hardly knows himself anymore, and he doesn’t know what that even means. So, asking Ron if he’s gone mad seems about as useful as anything else. He may as well have the second opinion.

Hermione frowns deeply at Harry’s tone, and Ron’s brow furrows with worry.

Ron sets his coins on the table, his hand in a loose fist. He struggles for words for a moment, but eventually answers, “you’re… you’re not crazy, Harry. I don’t think it’s _wrong_ to forgive him, I just… I don’t know, to be honest. I’m angry at him, still. I’m angry about the things he’s said, the things he’s done, the things he’s _not_ done, the things he’s been, and not been. All of it. And, you’re right – I’m holding onto it. I’m not ready to forgive him, and I don’t know that I’ll ever be.”

“W-Will...” Harry stammers to stop, pausing for a long, embarrassing moment, before finishing his thought, “… will you still be my friend? Even if I do wind up being his friend?”

At that, there is a pregnant pause, and then Ron stands up.

To Harry’s shock, Ron walks around the table to Harry’s side, and abruptly pulls Harry into a too-tight hug.

“I know I’ve got a temper. I’m sorry, Harry. I’m working on it, I swear,” Ron promises, “I’m sorry I made you question… I’m sorry I made you feel like I might leave you behind, or something. I never would. Never. Even if you make friends with Malfoy. We’re brothers, we are, Harry. And, I might get angry, and I might say stuff I don’t mean, or stuff that I do mean, but I shouldn’t say – I’m sorry for it. I’m not going anywhere, though. I swear.”

Suppressing the heat behind his eyes, Harry hugs Ron back, smiles a weird, watery smile, and says (hoarsely) back, “thanks, Ron.”

* * *

To not appear desperate, Harry waits two full days before writing to Malfoy.

He thinks he probably appears desperate anyway.

 

 

He's restless for another day, pacing irritably around the Burrow, waiting for Malfoy's response, which turns out to be quite worth the wait. He expected maybe a two-to-five word response, and instead, he got a rather lengthy response.

 

   

    

  

  

To say that Harry is looking forward to Saturday would be a horrendous understatement. He practically vibrates with the desire to move more quickly through time.

That last line - Harry means it. He means it for the first time in a long time.

"Looking forward to seeing you this weekend."

"Looking forward to."

It's been a good, long while since Harry looked forward to anything, but this - _this_ , he sincerely looks forward to. And that's mad, or brilliant, or possibly both. Probably both, actually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The handwriting is rough here, so if you couldn't read the letters, this is what they read:
> 
> "Dear Malfoy,
> 
> Not much news to report on my end. Still at the Burrow, still thinking about jumping off towers and such, as well. I think I found a place in Manchester for myself. It has high arching beams, with a lot of natural light coming in, so if anyone found me hanging from one of those beams, the general atmosphere would at least be nice. Very open, and all.
> 
> Before I left Diagon Alley the other day, I caught wind of something interesting from a little bird. I want to help you move whatever might need moving from the Manor – friends do that type of thing for each other. Help one another move. Let me know what I can do.
> 
> Best Regards,
> 
> Harry"
> 
> and after that,
> 
> "Potter,
> 
> You’re a dirty, lying eavesdropper is what you are. And your handwriting is positively atrocious. Did you use your non-dominant hand to write that wretched thing? I had to read it over thrice before I was certain I understood every annoying sentence.
> 
> Good to hear that suicidal ideation is still lingering about. I, myself, have surpassed you, in even this, of course. I have graduated from daydreaming about the Astronomy Tower, and spent an hour in the shower the other day, with no energy to stand. I simply sat in the tub, letting the water waste, staring blankly at a wall. Drowning might not be so terrible a way to go. I could arrange that, certainly. I’m friends with the merpeople in the lake at Hogwarts, you know. They taught me to sign through the glass walls in the dungeons. I could ask them to drown us.
> 
> They would be all too glad to, I’m sure – they’re almost never allowed to kill anyone anymore. Nice to not be staring into the void alone, though, so thank you for that, I guess.
> 
> As for the rest of your letter - typically I’d tell you to bugger off, that I’m not some charity case, and not everyone in the world needs the Angelic aid of the Great Harry Potter. This is all still true. However, I cannot deny that the opportunity to boss you around, and have you do my bidding is pleasing to me. So, I will allow it.
> 
> Meet me outside the Manor on Saturday, around two in the afternoon. Goyle will have been by on Friday, so most of the grunt work will have been done, unfortunately. Don’t fret, though. I’ll find something grueling and unpleasant for you to busy yourself with, while I oversee you.
> 
> On an unrelated note, do you have any idea what flimpesters are? Lovegood sent me incense to burn, and chimes to be hung by my bedroom window to ward them off? I’ve seen you two interact, so I assume you understand her, or you, at least, pretend to. I’ve searched the Manor’s library for any mention of them and haven’t found a thing. I do believe she’s making them up. Paranoid, though – put the chimes up anyway.
> 
> I was raised to be a good host, so I must ask what tea you like – do not mistake this for me actually caring what kind of tea you prefer. My mother would simply have a fit if she knew I didn’t ask. So, I’m asking.
> 
> You’ll be around for an afternoon and evening cup. I have quite a stash of Ruby Oolong and Blue Aurora. Get back to me soon, and for the love of God, fix that penmanship of yours.
> 
> Malfoy"
> 
> Then,
> 
> "Malfoy,
> 
> The Ruby Oolong sounds lovely. The merpeople actually scare me quite a bit, so we’ll have to arrange something else. Can’t fix my handwriting either, believe me, Hermione has tried her hardest with me. 
> 
> Looking forward to seeing you this weekend.
> 
> Best,
> 
> Harry"


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit Romione Sex Warning! (Megh is my kindred spirit and loves romione, as I do too, and as writers often do for each other, I have gifted her porn in this chapter bc i love her. If you'd like to skip it, their scene ends where the first break line begins) - in dialogue, Ron expresses having felt sexual attraction, and having had perverse thoughts about her while they were both underage, so bear that in mind before reading. 
> 
> Other warnings for this chapter are symptoms of depression being portrayed, and discussion of deceased loved ones. 
> 
> Let me know in the comments if there is anything else I should tag as a trigger warning!

When Harry descends the stairs, dressed to go out, pulling up the zipper of his ill-fitting, tattered jacket (that he knows Malfoy will despise on-sight), he notices only Hermione, Ron, and Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen.

The afternoon sun is casting pleasant light throughout the Burrow, music is playing softly from the living room, Ron is reading The Daily Prophet at the table, looking troublingly like his father, with a furrowed brow (though Harry dares not tell him), and Hermione is helping Mrs. Weasley with dishes, at the counter.

“Where is everyone?” Harry asks, full of nervous energy, as he bounces down the last step.

His tone is mistaken for optimistic by Molly and Ron, but Hermione gives him a sympathetic smile, that lets him know that at least one of them knows it’s the anxiety of seeing Malfoy that made his voice come out like that. He shrugs at her, in response, hoping she doesn’t try to say anything encouraging.

“I’m just on my way out, myself, actually, dear,” Molly tells him from over her shoulder, “I have some shopping to do. I imagine I’ll be out for a bit of the afternoon, as well. George went flying, Arthur and Percy are out with a few of Arthur’s colleagues, looking at job prospects for Percy, and Ginny is out with friends.”

“Oh, I see,” Harry says, with a long, empty pause following, before he adds, “Well, I’ll be off, then… uhm – I’ll be back… later. I suppose.”

“You mean unless Malfoy murders you before the night is up?” Ron asks casually.

“Suppose so, yeah,” Harry agrees, smiling at Ron’s disapproving brow.

With another short goodbye to Molly, and Hermione, Harry leaves.

Very shortly after that, Molly gathers her bag, and takes the floo out, and as easy as that, Hermione and Ron are alone for the first time in what feels like eons.

Hermione leans back on the kitchen counter, admiring the broad stretch of Ron’s shoulders as he sits with a slightly crooked posture. She’d have criticized him for that, a long time ago, but now she sort of looks forward to easing his back pain in years to come, and chiding him later in life, for the good posture he never bothered with.

She tilts her head, and says, “what you did the other day – with Harry – what you told him, about not leaving him. That was good of you.”

Without hesitation, Ron turns around, putting the paper down, leaving the Quidditch section open and abandoned, so he can properly look at her, instead. He smiles shyly, and asks, “you think so?”

“Brilliant,” she nods, “Yeah. He needed to hear that, and you’ve gotten good at communicating your feelings, Ron. You really have. I’m proud of you.”

Blush fills his freckled face, and he smiles more broadly, ducking his head bashfully before letting her know, “you know, I care about that. Everything I do, or say, I wonder if you’ll like it, or be proud of me over it. Is that… a bit much?”

Her heart pounds a little harder than before, and she shakes her head, her wild curls falling about her neck and shoulders.

“Not at all. That’s… deeply flattering, actually.”

Ron’s gaze softens, and Hermione steels herself.

She never imagined she’d have to be so forward with Ron, but it seems to have come to this. She’s just going to have to say what she wants, otherwise, there seems to be no end in sight to all this… strangely coy behavior.

History shall show that _she_ kissed  _him_ first, and while he professed his feelings first, it seems she’ll be… doing this part, herself.

Breathing in deeply, she tries to quell her anxiety, and focus on what she wants, which would be embarrassing to admit to, if she were still a child about the matter, but she’s not.

It’s precisely that they’re not children anymore that she’s had her mind so made up.

“Ron…”

“Yeah?”

She clears her throat nervously, wrings her wrist, and starts, “I… I want to talk to you seriously about something.”

The room’s mood shifting, Ron turns to face her entirely, his body language switching to something more open, and ready. He nods, his face solemn, fear mostly concealed, jaw set, like he’s ready for a punch.

“Then I… want you to talk to me. Seriously. About – whatever. Anything. What’ve you been thinking?”

He notices her wringing her wrists, and she thinks about stopping, but maybe seeing that she’s nervous about this subject will make him more ready to be vulnerable with her. That is the game they’ve always played – who will show some vulnerability first, and how will it be received?

It’s a bit like playing Chicken, but they both win at the end, no matter who bows first.

He’s not disappointed her, yet.

“I… I ask you for displays of affection, and I worry that it bothers you. I worry that, without my asking for affection, you’d not… show any. I want more from you, and that might be selfish – I’ve tried just… being patient, and waiting, and seeing how you might want to… move us forward… but, I’m beginning to worry that you might not want to be… intimate with me, that way, and I’m scared to ask.”

It all comes out in a rush, but at least it’s out in the open.

It takes a beat for Hermione to look up and dare to gauge Ron’s reaction.

He looks stern, and a bit like he’s biting his tongue.

Not a very promising start.

“Hermione,” Ron begins, leaning his elbows on his knees, “ – just so I know I understand – are you saying that you’re worried I don’t want to sleep with you?”

She flushes, and her heart beats wildly, and she certainly can’t maintain eye-contact now, but even if it’s to the floor, she nods positively.

“Alright… mind if I get a bit crass, here?”

“N-No, I don’t mind.”

Ron bobs his head a few times, sighs loudly, and laughs in an airy way, before explaining, “listen, ‘mione – I’ve been wanting to fuck you since I first understood what fucking was.”

The floor is fascinating! Never been so fascinating!

Hermione can’t look up. She’s not embarrassed, precisely, but she’s just never spoken so openly about such wanton things before. It’s intense.

“I’ve been thinking that I’d let you make whatever moves _you_ want – let you set the pace, you know? I didn’t wanna pressure you into anything. I didn’t wanna be another stressor, you see? I didn’t want you thinking about having to meet my needs, or wants, before taking care of yourself – but if you’re ready for me, Hermione – if you want me – I want you. I’ve always wanted you.”

Now, Hermione glances up, struck immediately by the misty look in Ron’s eyes.

He’s gotten good at reading her body language, and he seems to understand that she’s a bit frightened to move. He stands slowly, approaching her, and asking, “can I show you something? It’s a bit pervy, but I think it’ll help you understand.”

She nods again, feeling a bit dumb for losing all her words. That happens, though, when Ron looks at her certain ways.

He smiles, and comes to stand in front of her.

“Ask me for a goodnight kiss, like you sometimes do – you know, how you ask.”

She clears her throat again, and politely asks, “no goodnight kiss?”

He steps closer, his eyes lidded, and his voice is rougher than usual when he asks, “would you like one?”

She nods, and he leans in to kiss her chastely. He’s standing much closer than he typically does, though, and right as he kisses her, he takes her right wrist in his hand, and guides her hand low against him.

Gasping, she breaks the kiss, startled, and a little amazed, to feel Ron swelling into hardness from something she considered quite innocent.

Her wide eyes shoot up to his, and his face is bright red, but he’s still smiling.

“ _Ron_ ,” she breathes, and she feels him twitch against her palm in response to his name.

“Mm,” he hums agreeably, leaning his forehead against her bangs, “Tone counts for a lot, but really, whenever you say my name. I like hearing it in your voice. Only sounds special when you say it.”

His eyes find hers again, and his lips are moving the air across hers, keeping her rapt, “do you… do you like this?”

“Yes,” she answers immediately.

“Would you… do you want more than this?”

“Yes,” she tells him.

“Do you want me to take the lead, then?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she pleads.

“The second you’re uncomfortable, you tell me to stop, okay?”

“Yes – okay.”

“I want you, Hermione Granger,” he purrs, nuzzling near her ear, “I want all of you, all the time – but the minute you want it to stop, I’ll stop doing what I’m doing. I’ll never stop wanting you, though. I’ve always wanted you. You understand?”

“God, yes, Ron – I’ll applaud your chivalry later, but to be perfectly honest with you, I’d really prefer we be a bit more naked now.”

He laughs against the tingling skin of her neck, and the next thing she knows, she’s being lifted off the floor. His strong arms hoist her up by her thighs, and she wraps her own arms around his neck and shoulders, while crossing her legs over the small of his back. He carries her up the stairs like that, not missing a beat.

“You’re the brightest witch of our age, no doubt, but you’re a silly woman, Hermione Granger, if you thought for a moment that I didn’t want every part of you.”

“Ron,” she huffs, unsure of what she means to accomplish by it.

He brings them to his room, shutting the door with his foot, and gently putting her back on her own feet. She backs away from him, and he reaches for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up over his head.

He was a lanky boy when she met him, but he’s quite muscular now. He doesn’t look underfed or pallid anymore, the way he looked when they were hunting Horcruxes. He looks healthy again, he looks strong, and terribly appealing.

His riot of red hair is a mess from pulling his shirt over it, his eyes are lidded, but still bright, and he asks, “this alright?”

“Yeah,” she tells him with a nod, “Yeah, this is good.”

“Want me to stop there?”

“No!”

He laughs again, and she would feel embarrassed for herself if she could feel anything other than the blinding want she has for him.

“Alright, but you get nervous or uncomfortable, you tell me you’ve seen enough, right?”

“Yes, yes, I promise – don’t stop now,” she insists.

He’s smiling beautifully, and then he’s reaching for his jeans, unbuckling his belt with deft fingers, and the simple slide of his belt against the cloth of his pants has her chest and stomach going hot.

Letting his belt hit the floor with a soft clunk, he approaches her, letting his hands cup her waist. He slips his fingers under her shirt, and asks, “may I?”

She nods to him, and he kisses her, just once, sweetly, before helping her take her sweater off. It’s a slow, patient process, undressing them both, but once she’s very nervously naked before him (and based on the shade of red running down his face and chest, she thinks he’s quite nervous, himself), he leads her to his bed.

She lies down on her back, and he invites himself on top of her. He smiles, looking so lively and young, the way he looks when the war stops haunting his periphery. She decides she rather likes being such an enormous distraction, and she pulls him down to kiss her.

She is ready to open her mouth to him, ready to experiment the way she thinks he will want to, but he only touches her lightly with his tongue. It’s teasing, in a way, but it keeps her from feeling overly wet, or invaded, and she decides she likes it better than what she had imagined, and she tries to stop predicting what he’ll want.

Media, at least in the Muggle world, prepared her to be an extremely easy-going, sensual woman, casual enough to let her partner do as they pleased, and be submissive to it, because that was meant to be attractive, for her sex and gender. Instead, she’s found herself convincing her boyfriend to take her to bed, and finding that she doesn’t have to pretend to like anything she may not.

She can just react, and that seems to be more than enough.

He kisses across her cheek, across her lips, down her neck, and when she gasps, he fixates on the spot of her neck. It’s a sensitive patch of skin on her jugular that sends warm shivers throughout her entire body whenever he presses his tongue against it, or sucks the skin in between his teeth.

She grips his upper arms, gasping, moaning, and encouraging him. She really only hears the pounding of her heart, and the close muttering of her name being repeated to her.

When he kisses down her collarbone, down her sternum, so that his face is between her breasts, he cups either side of them, pushing them against his own face, and he sighs dreamily. She laughs at him, unintentionally shaking his smiling face with the quake of her laughter, and he tells her, “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“What? Suffocate yourself between my breasts?”

“Merlin, _yes_ ,” Ron tells her enthusiastically, though it’s muffled by his face being pressed against her, “Such a lovely way to go.”

She laughs again, and he laughs with her, nipping at her skin playfully – it puts her at ease, that he can joke with her, that his eyes aren’t full of scrutiny, or expectations.

Now that she’s here, in Ron’s bed, with him the way she’s wanted to be, she’s forgotten what made her so scared to begin with.

He’s the same man he’s always been. Friendly, eager, protective of her, and ready to make whatever they do together fun, safe, and loving. She doesn’t know why she ever doubted him.

His calloused thumbs brush over her nipples, and they harden, become more sensitive, and he becomes more fixated. She has to shut her eyes while he experiments – she’s known her own breasts her entire life, but she didn’t know they’d be quite so sensitive to someone else’s touch.

Her back arches, all of her wanting to be closer to him; her head tosses from side to side when he lightly pinches; she bites her lower lip and whines at the friction, but he doesn’t stop playing with them. He rubs in circles with his thumbs, doing nothing but watching her react with a gaze getting foggy with want - then, once he’s peppered kisses across her cleavage, he takes one nipple into his mouth, and her entire body reacts at once.

Arching again, her head digs back into his pillows, her nails bite into his shoulders, and her legs fly up, securing his hips.

He lets out this endearingly surprised groan, when her legs tug him closer – she tugs, writhing, and getting aggravated in a fantastic way all the while, until she can feel the head of his cock against her outer lips.

“ _Hermione_ ,” he moans, almost warningly.

“I want to,” she breathes out, feeling exposed, but too in love with how her exposure enraptures Ron to care anymore, “I want you.”

The noise he makes is as though he has suffered some horrible wound, and he lets his head fall on her, cursing her, but absolutely doesn't mean it. She smiles at the top of his head, wondering how much self-control he’s practicing.

“Not yet,” he rasps, his lips moving down her belly, “Not yet. I’ve waited a long time to taste you, Hermione – everything else can wait.”

A new wave of nervousness comes over her at that; is she clean enough, has she trimmed enough, will he be put off by the look of her, will she have to fake an orgasm, will her anxiety _force_ her to fake an orgasm in a situation where she would normally be able to, would it be okay to be dishonest with Ron that way if she feels the need to, and why in the world does she even feel the need to? 

"You alright?"

"Oh... uhm," she hesitates, "I..."

"Do you not want me to? I won't do anything you don't want me to, Hermione," he reassures her.

"No, I know, I just... I don't know if it looks... pretty?" 

Just as she's said it, she's covering her face with both her hands, groaning in embarrassment, "oh, that's so stupid, I know, I know it is, I just -"

"Hermione, believe me, I worry about the same stuff."

Revealing an eye, she picks up one of her palms to look at him, and he seems earnest, but she's still too embarrassed to put her hands down.

He gives her a lopsided smile, tilts his head, and explains, "guys - we worry about size, if it leans one way or another, or something - I worry about being... erm... _pretty_ for you, too."

She smirks at the way he hesitates on the word 'pretty,' and she knows what he means by it, he worries about being 'attractive,' but the way he says the word 'pretty,' gets her giggling, and she notices his shoulders slacken and relax again. He smiles more broadly at her, then shifts his weight onto one side, so she can stare down her own body, and see the length of his.

He gestures down from his chest to his hips with an open palm, and asks, "so, Miss Giggles? Am I _pretty_ enough? Do you think I'm _pretty_?"

She _keeps_ giggling at him, but she does take the chance to really look at him.

His quickly aging war scars are shiny on his skin, his cinnamon freckles are absolutely everywhere, his blush is blotchy and looks like blooming flowers over his chest. He has some red hair there, in the center of his chest, and a long trail of red hair that leads down from his navel to a dark red bush below his pubic bone. His entire torso is lean, and his legs and arms are very long, and strong. His legs, in particular, are muscular, and very pale. He has a farmer's tan, but she can't help but find it endearing. His leg hair is blonde in some light, ginger in other lights, and when she contemplates his cock, standing tall, pink, and at full attention, she can't help but think he looks _incredible_.

Others might disagree - some might say he's much too pale, so very English, some might say he's lanky-looking, or that his farmer's tan is funny, or dorky - but she loves every inch of it. From the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, he seems absolutely perfect, and her heart swells up with affection. 

"I think you're very pretty, Ron," she tells him softly.

His smile doesn't dim, but it calms, and he nods at her, "thank you. But, listen, Hermione - I _don't_ think you're _pretty_. I think my _mum_ is pretty, alright? You? _You're_ bloody gorgeous."

"Ron!" she chides, ready to accuse him of exaggeration. 

His hands trail down her thighs, parting them as he makes room for himself between her legs, "I mean it. I think you're sexy, I think you're incredible, you're breathtaking - you're beautiful, Hermione, and I think it all the time - whether you're in one of my mum's homemade sweaters and baggy pants, or you're dressed to go to a ball. And, if you'd like me to, I'd really like permission now, to lick my way into you like I've been having increasingly vivid dreams about since fourth year. Does that sound okay to you?"

She nods, but laughs again, letting her head fall back, but soon her laughter is cut short - the broad of his tongue brushes the sensitive space between her outer lips, and her thighs. Her legs twitch, as if ready to fold up and shut, but she tries to relax them again - she _wants_ to let him do this. She breathes in deeply, and tries not to mind that her breasts and arms a touch too cold - everything else feels blazing hot, in comparison, and she also soon forgets to mind what is pretty, or not. 

He kisses the flesh of her lips with a type of reverence and care she didn't imagine associated with this sort of act. He's very obviously thought about this for a good long while, with how much care he takes into every flick of his tongue, and drag of his lower lip. He makes soft moans against her that Hermione can only hear between the loud bumps of her heart, but she mostly _feels_ it. 

Blood must not be getting proper flow to her head either, because she's much too dreamily dazed to even care when she notices Ron pushing her thighs forward and out; it's terribly indecent, but she realizes quickly that this allows his long arms to stretch up her body, from under her lifted legs. His hands find her breasts, his calloused fingers find her pert, sensitive nipples, and everything intensifies tenfold. 

"Oh, _God_ , _Ron_!"

There's another pleased rumble from between her legs, and she wants to laugh, though she can't place why - she might just be delirious now - his sweet kisses, and small kitten licks have turned harder, longer, bolder, and while he teases the hood of her clit, he never touches it directly, which she's glad of. She'd be preoccupied with how deliberate that must be of him, if she could be preoccupied with anything other than all of the sensory input she's managing. 

Rather than potentially leaving permanent wrinkles in his bedsheets, her shaking hands comb through his hair and hold on, pulling lightly - she's certainly able to feel, and hear, the way he growls at that. She does it again, tugs lightly, and his kisses turn deeper, his noises louder, and his fingers rub more rapidly.

She knows she's crying out, knows she's making wanton sounds, and words, but the blood rushing in her ears drowns out all the noise. There's nothing coherent coming out, so she supposes it's not an issue - it's all just, "oh, God," "Ron," "don't stop," "so good," and, "please," all in varying orders and combinations, and she decides she'll be embarrassed about it later, but not right now. 

Right now, _Ron Weasley_ has her kiss-swollen mouth gaping on panting breaths, and is quite literally  _growling_ against her pussy, striking lightning up and down her spine with every twist of his fingers, and she was in no way prepared for this to be so good.

She realizes rather suddenly that she's about to come; her hips start canting, her hands unintentionally push his head more against her, her back arches, and he's _groaning_ against her in this unbelievably low, and deeply approving, tone - the pleasure he's apparently taking, and giving, is so animal, it's so unexpected, it's bloody  _fantastic_ \- she manages to say, (though it's very strangled), "oh, God - Ron, I'm coming - I'm -" and then all the air leaves her. 

The rest of her words turn into a long, low whine as she crests, her whole body shivering, toes curling, and blood rushing. 

Her orgasm is long, winding, _rewarding_ , and it leaves her boneless, and sensitive.

In time, her hands loosen their grip in his hair, and she's about to tell Ron her breasts have become too sensitive now to toy with, but he seems to be able to tell without her saying anything, and he draws his hands away in time.

It's only as she's releasing the tension in her legs that she realizes her legs had clamped together at all, trapping the poor man down there with no escape.

Propriety makes it to the forefront of her mind again, somehow, and she scrambles up a little, gasping at herself, her face very warm, as she exclaims, "oh, goodness, Ron! I'm so sorry! Did I hurt you at all? Your head - or your neck? Oh my God, this is so embarrassing - I'm so sorry -"

Unbothered by all and everything, apparently, Ron surges up, pushing her back onto the bed, gripping her wrists in his rough, warm hold, and pressing them down into the mattress. He kisses her, biting at her lower lip and pulling, still trying to get his own breath back. When he puts some space between them, she sees that his hair is a tangled mess (though she's probably not much better off), sticking up in all directions, his face is very, very red, and his pupils are very, _very_ dilated.

"Stop being sorry, that was easily the sexiest thing that's ever happened to me in reality _or_ dreams - you're incredible."

She would very much like to argue the point that she did very little work here, and while she's glad he's unhurt, she should still apologize for taking liberties without asking him about them - she didn't know there would be some innate instinct to trap him between her legs! That bit of information was _not_ included in the Human Sexual Behavior textbook she read (it may have been a few years since she read it, but she's sure she'd have remembered something like that).

But, he's moved on, it seems - he's nipping at the turn of her jaw, licking down her neck, and she realizes she'll be spotted with hickeys once he's done with her, but she thinks it's fair play - she used her thighs like a bear trap on him, and she shall wear the evidence of what they've been up to on her neck. She's too high on endorphins to mind it much.

"Still sorry," she murmurs, reaching up to hold one of his shoulders, and using her other hand to pet down his hair where she'd mussed it, "What if I'd broken your neck or something?"

"Listen, 'mione," Ron starts, kissing her collarbone again, petting down her sides, "if I'm taken out by your thighs, face buried in your pussy, someday, that's how I go out."

"Ron!" she laughs out.

"I'm serious," he says, but he's laughing against her skin too, "Tell the world I died doing what I love, no regrets at all!"

"Oh my God," she groans in embarrassment.

"Fifth year, you started wearing your skirt a little higher up - I noticed," he tells her, "I always noticed stuff like that. When we'd be on the moving staircases, I'd walk behind you, because every once in a while, I'd see just a flash of your panties. I'd imagine lying under you, my face beneath the weight of you - my hands would sweat, and get twitchy, like they had a mind'uh their own to reach up your skirt, and take 'em off. I've wanted to do that a long, long time."

She should probably be put off by such perverted thoughts, but she's not. She's actually, weirdly flattered by it - maybe any fifteen year old boy would ogle under any given skirt, but it was Ron Weasley, and he was singling _her_ out. She was what he wanted, even young as they were, and she'd had no idea. 

"I would have tossed you over the banister," she decides to tell him, smirking at him when he picks his head up to stare at her.

"What do you think kept me from actually doing it? I might be a Gryffindor, but I do have some sense of self-preservation."

She tosses her head back, laughing, "yes, you'll face off with a Horcrux in a dark wood, wielding the sword of Gryffindor, but you've enough survival instinct to know not to grope at me at Hogwarts."

"Instinct, _and_  respect!" Ron insists, "And yeah, I think my priorities are exactly where they should be! I used to think your priorities were all messed up, because you were more worried about being expelled than dying, but I get it now. It was about honor, about who you were, what you cared most about, and about going out on your own terms, in a way."

Looking to him, seriousness flooding back to the conversation, Ron gazes at her, and confesses, "I'd rather face a dozen Horcruxes in some dark wood, any day, over losing your respect. You have to know that, right? Losing you is much scarier than dying. But, of course it is - you're the woman I love. That's the way it should be."

He must notice her eyes getting glassy, because worry begins to knit his brows together, but before he can say anything to it, she shakes her head, wraps her arms around his neck, hooks her feet behind his knees, and whispers, "I love you too, Ron. I want you closer."

Her feet tug him closer, and the head of his cock rubs bluntly against her clit - she gasps, and his voice is shaking when he asks, "you're sure?"

"Yes - yes, I'm sure," she answers.

"Okay," he says, concern clearly laced in his reply, "Erm - let me -"

"No," she intercepts, stopping him before he can go back down on her - no doubt to soothe the way, but she feels confident that she's been made quite wet and relaxed enough - she needs him closer, and _now_.

"No?"

"Not this time, just - I need you," she insists, "I'll tell you to stop if I need you to, but please, I want this, and I need this, and I need it right now."

"Alright, okay," Ron assures her, reaching up to pet his thumb back and forth over her cheek, "Okay, you just let me know what's going on with you, alright?"

"Yes, I promise."

He nods, hesitates, but then starts moving - the head of his cock slides down and between her folds with ease. The surface of her skin has been made slippery, and the rest, her body did all on its own. Her breath catches when he first breaches her, and he freezes. She finds her patience, allows him this momentary fear, then nods to him, to keep going. He nods back, and follows her silent instruction, inch by inch - her body is accommodating the entire way, and she could have been stretched more, she could have been better prepared, but she finds that she likes the strain of her muscles now, the way she has to stretch for him.

It doesn't hurt, there's no blood or anything - he's gentle, patient, and very slow, and the building pressure is actually pleasurable. Her heart is drumming again, and she becomes fixated on the way his jugular pounds against his flustered skin. She can feel his heart pounding above her, and she wonders what he might be thinking, but doesn't ask. She doesn't have a single clear thought at all, until he's entirely inside her, his pubic bone pressed against her clit.

His breathing is labored, there's the sound of drums in her ears, they're locked together, and she feels, very suddenly, desperate for him.

Her fingers scrape at his back, and his breath hitches, his hips stutter into her, and she shuts her eyes, her head falling further into his pillows.

"You can move," she tells him, "I feel fine - you can move."

He doesn't respond verbally, but his hips start a slow, deep rhythm. At some point, he groans, his forehead dipping down to her shoulder, and he tells her, "oh, 'mione - I'm sorry, and this is really embarrassing, but this isn't going to last long."

He sounds so sincerely apologetic, she can't help but smile. Her eyes are still glassy, everything, inside and out, feels a thousand times more intense than she thought she could feel, and so, she nods, smiling a sort of watery smile he can't see from where his head is tucked, "that's fine - I just want you close."

He intakes deeply, she feels it and hears it, and then he moves with a little more vigor, he keeps a faster pace, and she grips at the skin of his back, clawing at him, involuntarily gasping and moaning at every rhythmic push and pull.

Her moaning must get remarkably loud, because he asks, "you okay, love?"

" _Ah_!" she cries out, all her nerves lighting up, her voice cracking, "yes, God - Ron, yes!"

It's all she can manage, because he calls her 'love,' and she imagines marrying him, _wanting_ to marry him that very moment, and she hates that she can't bring him home.

She despairs that her parents will never know that she chose such a wonderful man, that he won't be interrogated by her father at some dinner table her own mother has prepared for them - that they won't see how happy he makes her, how careful, gentle, and good he is with her, how neither of them will be able to walk her down any aisle, to meet him at the other end - she imagines the children she wants to have with him, having to explain why half their family tree is missing, and she despairs, but she also _loves him_ , she loves him incandescently, infinitely, and that's somehow enough.

It's enough to keep her in the present time, here, with the man she loves, twined with him, feeling perfect, feeling beautiful, feeling wanted - for who she has been, and who she is now, and her gratitude, her happiness, shines out, keeping the darkness at bay.

Her fingers dig deeper, her brow furrows tightly, and tears fall from her eyes, overwhelmed, and undone.

Rather than asking her if she's okay again, as she worried he might, he kisses her - she opens her eyes, though they're heavily lidded, and she sees tears in his eyes too.

It helps.

"I-I have to pull out, I'm not - not going to last," he warns her.

"You can come inside me," she tells him, tingling from her lips to her toes, "I've been on birth control since I was sixteen, Ron, it's safe."

He either doesn't need to hear anymore reassurance, or he doesn't have enough blood in his brain to process more information, because he doesn't ask after it.

Instead, he scoops her into his arms, pressing their chests together, and the weight of his strong chest on hers borders on too much, but she doesn't dare push him away. She crosses her ankles over the small of his back, while he cradles her close, keeping his face buried in the crook of her neck.

Her heels bounce against him, and she listens to the sweet, aching, vulnerable noises he mouths against her shoulder and neck, the way he whispers her name over, and over, until his thrusts lose their rhythm, until she feels warm, and unwound, all over. His release is powerful, leaves him trembling, knocks the breath from him, and it takes him a minute to reestablish a deep enough pattern that oxygen is actually making it to his head.

He picks himself off her, holds himself above her, and she pretends not to notice the wet streaks down his cheeks.

"I love you," he says.

She cups his face, pulls him down to kiss him, and says against his lips, "I love you too."

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Harry arrives, it’s as if he’s fallen into a Penseive.

He’s sucked back in time, with the way the Manor looms, enormous, promising darkness, and emanating despair. It’s a sad, eerie sight.

The gates do not scream at Harry when he squeezes past them, and when he comes to knock on the front doors, they swing open for him before he has the chance. He has to get through the greyed out foyer to reach a common area, but once he does, he sees light from a hearth, and a tall silhouette moving across the way, casting shadows about the room.

“Malfoy?” Harry calls out a bit nervously, never very pleased to see undefined figures moving in semi-darkness.

“Potter,” Malfoy greets, some degree of surprise in his voice, “Sorry I didn’t meet you outside. You can open the door all the way, if you please. My hands are rather full – I got distracted, and it seems I lost track of time.”

Harry does as he’s told, and he finds Malfoy, finely dressed, fringe just slightly askew, lifting one heavy box to what looks like a growing pile of them near an oversized loveseat.

He doesn’t ask why Malfoy isn’t using magic to lift the boxes; he can deduce easily enough that Malfoy isn’t allowed to use his magic outside of school yet.

The boxes are opened, they expose the spines and covers of books, the curl of scrolls, the sparkle of gems, crystals, bottles, jars, and stones. The fireplace is warm, but it seems to be the only real source of warmth in the entire Manor. The rest of the Manor feels like an ancient, empty mountain, cold, dismal, and lonesome.

“My mother’s study, and the guest room – I used to use the guest room for recreational potion-making, so I’ll need help moving the cauldron and some ingredients. Organizing, labeling them, and getting them put away. Tossing out what’s rubbish, or just not usable anymore, packing whatever I want to keep, etcetera.”

Harry wonders why Malfoy doesn’t mention that he’s donating the rest to charity – he knows that’s what Malfoy told Goyle, and he has no reason to lie to Goyle about such a thing.

Perhaps he doesn’t want Harry getting some kind impression from him – maybe Malfoy perceives his remorse as some kind of weakness on his part?

Harry hardly knows his own mind – he can’t begin to decipher Malfoy’s, so he stops right there.

“Fantastic,” Harry says with feeling; because, although he’ll be spending the afternoon and evening moving heavy boxes of junk around Malfoy Manor, he really does feel fantastic about it all, “Where do you need me?”

“Follow me to the guest room,” Malfoy suggests, and Harry obeys.

He follows Malfoy upstairs, and indeed, there are three cauldrons of different makes, models, and sizes, there are more jars, tins, bottles, and miscellaneous items, like weighing scales, athames, crystal rune sets, crystal grids, incense, and all manner of herb.

Most of the jars are already labeled, and Harry thanks the Heavens for that, because, by his approximation, there are roughly six hundred of them.

There’s a tall glass jar of _Acacia Honey_ (labeled as such) with a honeycomb floating in it, and there’s a silver tin labeled ‘ _dry African Violet (Saintpaulia ionantha)_ ’ right next to it, and Harry can’t help but ask, “what’s this one for?”

“African Violets?” Malfoy specifies, “It’s versatile. African violet is, erm – feminine, in nature. It’s aligned with the planet Venus, and the element of water, for alchemical use. It’s generally used in potions and rituals related to protection of the hearth and home. It is toxic, though – it’s not meant for consumption. The potions you make with that are things you soak objects in. Beloved trinkets, or things you want protected, and loved. It’s also very good for poisons, but I’m not really in the business of making poisons.”

“But you are in the business of making feminine protection dips?” Harry asks jokingly, smirking at Malfoy’s half-turned face.

“I’m most recently in the business of finding a way to shut you up. Why don’t you take the first three shelves of herbs and ingredients downstairs, and pack them up?”

“I can do that,” Harry answers, smiling – because he can.

He doesn’t feel infinitely exhausted at the very idea of moving right then. Not that it wasn’t difficult to get himself to the Manor, because it was – if anxiety hadn’t been fueling his every motion, he may have run late from the depressive slug he becomes most mornings. But now that he is actually there, he doesn’t mind putting his disused muscles to work.

And he will use his muscles. He doesn’t want to use his magic in front of Malfoy when Malfoy can’t do the same; not out of pity, but an understanding of fairness.

So, he hefts boxes to and from the guest room while Malfoy tinkers about, muttering about what he’s low on, what he can reasonably take to Hogwarts, and what he ought to leave behind.

Harry has made a few trips already, and he’s got a very light sweat building, when he starts actually reading the labels of what he’s boxing up.

“Aconite!” Harry exclaims, when he finds a container named thusly, split down the middle by a divider, “This is Monkshood and Wolfsbane – isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Malfoy answers curiously, looking begrudgingly impressed, “How did you know?”

Bashfully, Harry shrugs, mentioning as casually as he can, “Snape quizzed me – first year. Hermione told me later, that Monkshood and Wolfsbane are from the same family, but different herbs. She said ‘Aconite,’ – I can still hear her saying it, in my head – and she said something like, that they were first thought to be what grew from the drool of Cerberus? Or something? All that really stuck with me is that Monkshood and Wolfsbane are types of Aconite.”

“Mm,” Malfoy hums noncommittally, “Well, she’s not wrong. Is that the only herb you know? Do you even know what it’s used for?”

“Not a clue, actually,” Harry exaggerates (he could guess, and he does remember _some_ things from Potions), “But I’m not a potions-person, as it were. So, I don’t mind not knowing. What about you? Do you know all the herbs in here? What element they’re associated with, what they’re good for, where they come from, and all?”

“I most certainly do,” Malfoy answers confidently, “Specialty herb-shopping is actually one of my favored pastimes. I know every herb in here backwards and forwards. Not an herb in this Earth you could show me that I couldn’t tell you the life story of.”

“Alright,” Harry says, in such a way that both he and Malfoy know he’s issuing a challenge, “What’s everything you can tell me about… this one?”

Harry picks a rather large, glass container of yellow flowers with green stems, and if inquiring minds were to pick his brain, those descriptors would be all he could say on the matter.

Malfoy crosses his arms over his chest, smirks, and announces proudly, “that would be Common Agrimony you’re holding, otherwise known as Cockleburr, Church Steeples, Sticklewort, Philanthropos, Ackerkraut, Agrimonia, Funffing, Herbe de Saint-Guillaume, Liverwort, Acrimony, Harvest lice, Aigremoine, Odermennig, Agrimoniae herba, Burr Marigold, Garclive, and Fairy's Wand.”

“How could you possibly remember all of that?” Harry asks.

Malfoy does little more than lift an unimpressed brow at him, and continue, “Agrimony is a perennial native to Europe, Western Asia, and Northern Africa. It grows most naturally in open fields, waste places, and hedgerows, it produces a sweet, citrusy scent, and if you look closely, you can see yellow spikes – like small hairs – appear all along the stem. The leaves are also fuzzy, with a bit more fuzz on the bottom side, giving the undersides a silvery appearance. The root is a black, woody rhizome.”

Malfoy steps closer, examining the jar of Agrimony as he tells Harry, “the name ‘Agrimony,’ likely comes from the Greek ‘argemone,’ meaning ‘plant used for treating cataracts,’ even though Agrimony is not often used in such a capacity, although it’s wonderful for Healing potions. The Anglo-Saxons called it Garclive, and used it to treat wounds, skin blemishes, warts, and snakebites. An early herbal remedy used a mixture of Agrimony, human blood, and pounded frogs, to treat internal bleeding. Agrimony has long been regarded as powerfully magical, which is why one of its most common names is ‘Fairy Wand.’ In an 18th-century Scottish witch trial, Agrimony was mentioned as a witch's cure, for people who were 'elf-shot,' or suffering unexplained illness.”

“Witch trial?” Harry asks, smiling a little, “I thought you hated Muggle Studies.”

“I do,” Malfoy tells him, “I retain what’s useful, though, and knowing one’s herbs _is_ useful. Anyway – Agrimony prefers well-drained soil, and full to partial sun, and tolerates dry spells well. Agrimony can be harvested at midsummer, or when the flowers just come into bloom. For the best results, one cuts the whole plant, and then hangs it outside to dry. Or plucks the leaves as needed, as the flower is not the only useful part. Agrimony is an invasive perennial, so one does need to keep on top of it, to make sure it doesn't take over the entire garden.”

“Wow. I –"

“Did I say I was finished?”

Harry’s mouth clamps shut on a laugh he knows will be ill-received, as he thinks he’ll likely be doing with Malfoy for as long as Malfoy entertains his company. Despite stifling the laugh, Malfoy looks down his nose at Harry, anyway, snobbish and proud.

“As I was saying, Agrimony is masculine in nature, and according to Nicholas Culpeper, it is associated with the planet Jupiter, though not all witches and wizards agree on that matter – but it is agreed upon that it is most associated with the element of air. Agrimony is useful for spell work, it’s used in protection spells, to help build a psychic shield, to reduce the influence of another's negativity, and to banish negative energies, and spirits.

“It is said to reverse harmful spells cast on you, causing them to rebound on the sender, it’s used in all protective sachets, and medicine bags. It can also be burned in banishing rituals, or as a wash to cleanse the aura. It is especially useful in Healing magic, as it enhances the strength of all healing spells, especially at a distance. One could use it in a ritual bath, before beginning any magic work, as a wash for one’s tools; it can’t be burnt as an offering, or fumigant, or added to pillows.”

“Pillows?” Harry asks, smiling unabashedly as Malfoy’s eyes sparkle with the lust he’s always had for undivided attention.

Still loves the spotlight, it seems.

“Yes. Agrimony can be added to pillows, or placed under the pillow of someone, to ensure a deep, dreamless sleep. This is an old traditional use for the herb – there’s even an Old English rhyme for it; ‘ _if it be leyd under mann’s head, he shall sleepyn as he were dead; he shall never drede ne wakyn, till fro under his head, it be takyn_.’ In general healing, it can be used as a diuretic, used to ward off urinary and kidney infections, jaundice, liver disease – it can be made into a ‘tonic,’ as well, called a ‘spring tonic,’ to be used in gargling, for irritated throats. It’s also a Bach Flower Remedy herb – used to bring emotional equilibrium to those who hide their feelings behind humor, or ‘put on a brave face,’ – that type of thing. It promotes acceptance of self, the healing of the soul, and so on and so forth.”

“Ah,” Harry breathes out, still trying not to laugh, “is that all?”

“Well, too much of it, especially in powder form, can cause constipation. But that’s about it, yes.”

At that, Harry does laugh – he throws his head back, and laughs right from his gut, thinking Malfoy absolutely intended to make him laugh with that last bit – he’s much too old to be laughing at poop-humor, but Malfoy’s wrinkled nose on recalling the word ‘constipation,’ is just too funny to ignore.

When he rights himself, he says, “to think – all I ever needed to know and, possibly never wanted to know, about Agrimony, so available all this time.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes, trying (and failing) to turn away before Harry can catch him smirking again, “shut up. You did ask.”

“Fair enough,” Harry surrenders, readjusting the box in his arms, “Never thought I’d say it, but you and Neville would make good friends.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, he’s really into Herbology. He’d like to be professor at Hogwarts someday, I think. He’s a bit of an encyclopedia – like you.”

“Does he garden?”

“Yeah,” Harry answers, working towards the open door to take the box down to the others, “Grows most of his own ingredients and stuff. Really knowledgeable on the matter.”

“Hmm. Think he’d trade sex for herbs?”

Stumbling over the threshold of the doorway, Harry scrambles to get the box back in order so nothing is broken, or slides out before he can catch it. He turns back to Malfoy, stares for a moment before reaching up to fix his slanted glasses, but Malfoy makes no nervous twitches about the nose.

He doesn’t appear to be joking.

“Uhm… I… have no idea? I… I don’t think so? He’s, erm – very… ethical?”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Malfoy groans long-sufferingly, seating himself on the foot of the guest bed, “Figures. Gryffindors are truly the most reliable source for disappointment.”

“You’d – are you seriously suggesting that you’d mess around with Neville for specialty herbs?”

The look Malfoy gives him is very dry.

“Do you know how much I pay for my stock? I don’t know where you think I lie on a spectrum, morally, but I am not above sleeping with a well-versed gardener for some quality herbs.”

“It’s not, uhm – no, it’s – I didn’t realize you were –"

“Something other than straight?” Malfoy gracefully intercepts, “Ah – that’s why you’ve gone so pale. Alright, well, take a good ten beats to let it sink in, accept it as a new part of your reality, and then take the bloody box downstairs, hmm?”

Harry takes that instruction to heart – counts to ten, rights himself, and hauls the box downstairs.

After that, he tries focusing more on the herbs he’s putting away than what Malfoy is looking like, muttering to himself, or possibly thinking about.

There’s Betony, Bindweed, Black Cohosh, Bloodroot, Bluebell, Calendula, Chamomile, Cloves, Coltsfoot, Devil’s Claw, Enchanter’s Nightshade, Evening Primrose, Eyebright, Feverfew, Foxglove, and Ginger.

There’s Hazel, Heather, Holly, Hyssop, Lavender, Lungwort, Mandrake, Marigold – Malfoy is interested in sex with men – Mistletoe, Motherwort, Mugwort, Narcissus – did his mother know? – Nutmeg, Okra, Pennyroyal, Peppermint Leaf, Phlox – does _anyone_ know? – Dried Rose Petals, Rosemary, Rue, Saffron, Sage, Solomon’s Seal, Stinging Nettle, St. John’s Wort – did he ever date a young man, at Hogwarts?

Toadflax, Unicorn Plant, Valerian, Vervain (red, blue, and grey), Water Lily, Witch Hazel, Wormwood, Yarrow – he has to ask.

“Malfoy, does anyone else –“

“Hmm?”

The afternoon sun is clouded away, but the light is still making it into the room – dust particles are floating around in the air, and Malfoy looks cold, and like white gold, in the beam of light he’s standing in. Regretfully, Harry remembers a time when Malfoy always looked sort of rosy, and warm, if distant – he was unreachable, he was always far away, but not like this.

He’s far away inside of himself now, and Harry tends to think that he may be in the same state, without meaning to be. Like he died during the war and was buried inside himself – what comes to the surface is this old ghost that used to be him, is pretending to be the old Harry Potter everyone once knew, but it’s a zombie. And looking at Malfoy now, Harry sees the ghost under his skin.

It’s while he’s lost in thought that Harry notices Malfoy holding a bottle in his hand – it’s very small, glass, round, and corked. The liquid inside is clear as water, but under certain lights, it gives off an almost blue tint. It seems, very subtly, incandescent as well.

“What is that?” Harry wonders, as he comes to stand beside Malfoy.

Staring down at the bottle still, Malfoy sighs, and explains, “I forgot about this. For my tenth birthday, Severus brought me three of these bottles. You know that speech he gives to all the first years? About bottling fame and glory?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, “I remember.”

“Well, this was a bottle of perfection,” Malfoy muses, holding the bottle up to see it glint in the light, “It’s meant to be poured into whatever potion I need help with, and it will assure that the potion is precisely what I want it to be. It’s a bottle of perfection, so I could be absolutely certain that whatever potions I used it for, would be effective, and be exactly what I needed it to be.”

To say that Snape was not someone Harry would have thought of as being good with children is an understatement. For the years of Snape’s life that Harry could account for, his disdain, bitterness, and broken heart all oozed like infected, untreated wounds, bleeding all over anyone that came near. He wasn’t a kind man, but Harry supposes that doesn’t mean he wasn’t capable of love.

Perhaps Snape loved Malfoy, as much as he could love any child.

“It’s just water, I think,” Malfoy mutters with an airy, disingenuous laugh, “Just water, charmed to sparkle. Gave me confidence, though, knowing that I had a fallback. I had this bottle of whatever – I didn’t have to worry so much, I didn’t have to overthink, you see? I could try my best, and if my best wasn’t good enough, why, I had a bottle of perfection! Seems ridiculous now that I ever believed it, but kids will be kids, I guess.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Harry admits, smiling a bit sadly at the down turned angle of Malfoy’s lips, “Were you close to him?”

“I like to think so, but I don’t know if anyone _could_ be close to him. Besides – there was always a child that needed more of his attention than me.”

At first, Harry thinks to argue, because he remembers Snape being remarkably cold to absolutely all the children _except_ Malfoy, but then the insult hits him – he gets it, very suddenly, that the child who always needed Snape’s attention must have been, singularly, him. _He_ got in the way.

“Believe me, Malfoy, if I could have gotten his attention off of me, I’d have gladly given it all to you.”

Malfoy cocks a brow at him again, lowering the bottle from where he was examining it.

“You know my mother loved him, right?”

“What?”

Finally, Malfoy settles the bottle down on a tabletop, and turns to fully face Harry. He crosses his arms over his chest again, but he doesn’t look down his nose at Harry.

If anything, Malfoy looks like he’s chilly, smaller.

Harry thinks they ought to return downstairs, to the fireplace.

He also thinks this visit is exposing more than he knew he didn’t know.

“My mother was in love with him. All their lives. She married my father, because she realized waiting for Severus would never herald anything. My father was persistent, as suitors go, and eventually, she chose companionship over romance. She chose to marry my father, but not much out of love, as much as she did it out of convenience and want for a child.”

Readjusting the weight of his feet, shifting on them, Harry asks a bit awkwardly, “did… do you know if your parents ever loved each other?”

Nodding, Malfoy replies, “certainly, yes. My father loved my mother as much as a man like him can love anything, and my mother loved my father – he was just second-best. He was her second choice. Terribly sad way to spend a life, I think.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, “Yeah, it is…”

To Harry, it feels as if he has a million questions about that entire situation, but he can’t really think of any clear ones to sound out.

Maybe he just wants to be told the story of how it all unfolded – that there’s no specific question besides, ‘how did it all really happen?’ Why did Narcissa Malfoy love Severus Snape? How long did she wait for him? Did he know that she waited for him? Was Narcissa okay with being second-best in Snape’s eyes? Could she have been happy? Was she ever happy?

Would she have done all she did, how she did it, if she’d been with him, and not Lucius? Would she have been safer with Severus? Would she have been an Order member? Would a thousand things be different now, if her love had been requited?

Would Malfoy be here at all, if it was?

“Well?” Harry decides to ask, gesturing at the bottle of perfection, “Are you going to keep it?”

It’s the only question he feels able to ask in the moment.

It takes some thought, but Malfoy eventually decides, “yeah. I suppose I will.”

They break for tea, near the fireplace, surrounded by boxes. Harry has asked after at least thirty different herbs, and Malfoy has either spun very fantastic lies, or he has a massively impressive knowledge on them all. Harry can’t even decide which scenario is more likely.

Sipping his Ruby Oolong tea out of china much too nice to be handled by his dusty palms, he asks, “hey, this might be overstepping, but – did your mother know? About you not being straight?”

Rather than offended, Malfoy seems intrigued by the question, and in reply, he shrugs, admitting, “I don’t know. I never told her outright, but I’m fairly sure she knew. I was never really invested, romantically, in Pansy, and she could see that. We talked about it sometimes, about my not liking Pansy that way, but not much. I never really felt comfortable discussing it. She did intercept a letter from a boyfriend once, though, and while it wasn’t explicit in nature, it was romantic and familiar – she must have known, after that.”

“You had one?” Harry asks disbelievingly, “A boyfriend? At Hogwarts? How did no one notice?”

“Because he wasn’t _at_ Hogwarts,” Malfoy explains, “At least – not long, anyway. He was from Durmstrang. Lucas Ludovic. And, really, he hardly counted as a boyfriend. He was a – flirtation, I suppose. His convictions were strong, though. Stronger than mine, stronger than my family’s. He was a pleasant enough bloke, when conversation wasn’t political, but… he was a sort of supremacist. A very radical one. Every political tangent he went on read like a manifesto. The letter exchanges petered out on their own, and we never officially started anything, or broke things off. He did like me quite a lot, though.”

Looking over the rim of his teacup, Harry asks, “how do you know? If it was never official?”

“Finding me at the Yule Ball, dragging me to an empty corridor, and shoving me against a wall for a thorough snog and groping was a fairly good sign.”

“Ah,” Harry chokes out, feeling his face get hot.

Malfoy stares at him for a few unnerving beats, then asks, “you want to know, really? How I really knew he liked me?”

Assuming Malfoy’s previous answer was only a half-joke, Harry nods, and Malfoy sets his cup down. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together, and he stares into the fire.

“He cared about me, and I know he did. It’s simple, but complicated at the same time…”

Malfoy struggles for a minute, searching for the right words, it seems, and Harry is really rather flattered that Malfoy is making a clear effort to talk to him as a friend.

He wonders if it could have been this easy, all along. If all that time ago, he’d taken Malfoy’s proffered hand, and agreed to be his friend, if this was what it would have been like.

“I met him in the Great Hall, the night they arrived,” Malfoy continues, “He sat beside me, he asked me my name, and when I shook his hand and told him, he said, ‘like the stars?’ – his accent was endearing, too. I told him that yes, I was named after stars, and he looked into my eyes a long moment. I couldn’t have moved if I wanted to. Lost track of everyone and everything around me, really – I could only see him, and this intense way he was looking at me, this way no one had ever looked at me before. And then he said, ‘I can see why.’ Very softly. Just ‘I can see why.’ I didn’t know what to say.”

“Did you say anything at all? I wouldn’t know what to say either,” Harry murmurs, amazed that Malfoy is being so candid with him.

“I think I said something along the lines of ‘I ought to keep you around,’ – you know, making a bit of a joke out of his flirtation. He wouldn’t have that, though. He said, ‘I think I’d like to be kept by you, Draco Malfoy.’ After that, it was a barrage of flowers, treacle tarts, and things like dragon pendants being sent to my room. There were constant notes from a raven – his familiar – I think her name was Ebba? Something like that. He sat next to me at meals, and he’d sometimes hold my hand on the bench. When he walked with me in the halls, he held onto my cloak, or my sleeve, he held doors open for me, pulled out chairs for me, always asked me how I’d slept, how my day was – he was inquisitive, sensitive, and charming.”

Blushing, Harry can’t help but feel a bit envious. He doesn’t think anyone has ever described him that way, or with nearly as much nostalgic tenderness. He wonders too, what it was like to treat Draco Malfoy like a blushing maid, like this bloke did. He wonders if Malfoy was flustered, or shy, or if he simply basked in the attention like a cat in the sunlight.

In a very dark kind of humor, to himself, Harry privately thinks that courting Draco Malfoy could have easily been one of the dangerous, possibly lethal challenges of the Tri-Wizard Tournament. He thinks he likely would have failed that one.

“None of that is what let me know it was serious, though,” Malfoy continues, still staring into the fire, “It wasn’t the flowers, the gentlemanly treatment, the inquiries, the small touches, the gifts – it was the way he looked at me.”

“How?” Harry asks, truly eager to know, “How did he look at you?”

Malfoy bows his head, away from the fire, staring down at the floor, gathering his thoughts. His fingers flex out, as if they’re cramped, or itching to hold something other than themselves.

“Do you remember – do you remember the first clear sky you saw, after the war?” Malfoy asks him, “Do you remember the first full moon, the first night you could see the stars, or maybe the first sunrise, the first – the first monumental mark of the end. The end of the war, the end of the shadow passing over us all, and the light coming back to the sky?”

“Yeah,” Harry replies honestly, “I do.”

Picking his head up, Malfoy meets Harry’s eyes, and says, “however you looked at the sky, that relief, that disbelief, that tidal wave of – of absolutely everything – how you thought that the worst is behind you now, and how much gratitude there was, there was devastation, but this boundless feeling too, this unstoppable feeling, and how much glory there was, in not being a hero, but just being alive, staring up at that sky. Just making it out to the other end – seeing the sky, and it hadn’t fallen down. It was still up there, still brilliant, but now it promised more, it promised better – the world was changed, and you felt it in you, and you could see it – you could see it everywhere.”

“ _Yes_ – yes,” Harry agrees, nodding and leaning closer over the cocktail table toward Malfoy, “I’ve never been able to describe that moment, but yes, it – absolutely – that’s exactly what it felt like, yes.”

“That’s how he looked at me.”

Harry had almost forgotten what they’d been talking about. His blush returns, and Malfoy looks away again, his own sharp cheekbones darkening.

“He looked at me like I was… the _day_. Like he was so lucky, like it was surreal to be standing and staring at me. Like I was some grand lost thing he thought he’d never see again, but I was there, somehow, against all odds…”

Shaking his head a bit, Malfoy continues, “he cried, when they left. He swore to write me letters, he promised he could never forget me, and he said to me, ‘if I could take you home, Draco Malfoy, you would be with me forever. You would be my boy of stars, if I could bring you home.’ He loved saying that – calling me that. That day, he said it through streaming tears. He was devastated to leave me.”

“And you?”

Malfoy picks his head up again, looking quizzically at Harry, until Harry adds, “how did you feel – when he left?”

Straightening in his seat, Malfoy leans back, takes his tea in hand again, and answers, “like I wish I could escape the war, Potter. Like, if I could escape with Lucas, we could run off to Norway, or Bulgaria, or something, hide together, leave it behind us. Not let the shadow pass over us again. But it did.”

Positioning himself more comfortably in his chair, Malfoy goes on, saying, “when I’d seen him off, I left to my room. There were notes and flowers waiting there. I didn’t cry. I wouldn’t let myself. But I returned every letter he wrote, and I’d send my own gifts to him – he was always so thrilled to know I was thinking of him. He wasn’t what I wanted, as a partner, or spouse, or whatever – I didn’t _know_ what I wanted, then. I just knew to listen to my parents, to stay safe, but his zealot talk didn’t put me at ease. It made me anxious. He was deep in the Dark Arts. I couldn’t join him there. I don’t know what our last correspondence was like. I don’t remember, but I know I answered every letter he ever sent.”

Harry frowns at Malfoy’s profile, watching his silver eyes go glassy.

“I hate that I can’t remember it. He’s dead now, so I can’t ask him what happened, anyway. I can’t ask him why he never answered my last letter. I suppose I’m just not meant to know.”

He laughs that airy, non-laugh he has, this empty sound that Harry hates, and then he confesses, “I don’t even have a picture of him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Malfoy suggests, blinking and clearing away the reminiscence from his eyes, “I deserve worse than an almost-lover, a luckless romance. It was nice, though, to feel so wanted. Not for what I could do for someone, but for just being myself. It was amazing to feel like, to someone’s eyes, I was that sky full of promise, sitting there, reading a book, or eating a meal, or talking too much. That I was something immeasurably special to him for some reason. Maybe that’s the only time I’ll ever know that feeling, but that I ever felt it at all is probably more than I deserve, after all’s been said and done.”

Malfoy’s tone doesn’t offer Harry a choice in arguing that point. He doesn’t know what he thinks Malfoy deserves, but never knowing unadulterated love isn’t it.

“He amazed you, and charmed you, but – did he make you happy?”

Eyes widening, Malfoy turns to Harry again, and waits for Harry to repeat himself.

“Did he?” Harry asks, “Did he make you happy?”

There’s a pregnant pause, a significantly long one, and then Malfoy tells him, “honestly, Potter, I can’t know if I’d recognize the feeling, had anyone given it to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes! Surprise Narcissa/Severus shipping here, and that will be more relevant later on! It /is/ important, but it'll come up again later. If it's not a ship you like, I understand, it's important to my story here, though, so please don't leave complaints - their story will be secondary to the slow build Draco/Harry arch going on. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's been so patient with me about this series. I'm in the process of applying for grad school, and I'm in such a financial hole, I couldn't afford groceries last week. I've been sort of a mess. It's been hard for me to focus on projects like these, but I'm trying to dedicate more time to it <3

**Author's Note:**

> This is a donation fic and lately, I need all the help I can get. If you can donate anything at all to help me along with my college expenses and living expenses, you can make them out at paypal.me/loserchildhotpants. Every penny counts and means the world to me - thank you for all your support <3


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